(V 


y 


Yi 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


A  DIAGNOSIS 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 
WILLIAM  PEGRAM 


BOSTON 

SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &  COMPANY 
1916 


COPYRIGHT,  1916 
SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &•  COMPANY 


PS 


To  those  who,  in  an  age  conspicu 
ous  for  its  materialism,  are,  by  the 
more  practical-minded,  referred  to  as 
the  "  Dreamers  " —  those  Idealists  who 
have  succeeded  in  freeing  their  minds 
from  the  conventional  shackles  of 
thought  and  who,  unhampered  by  the 
dead  hand  of  tradition  and  the  benumb 
ing  touch  of  superstition  and  conven 
tional  dogmatism,  find  their  real  joy 
and  inspiration,  and  refresh  and 
strengthen  their  souls,  in  the  contem 
plation  of  life's  immeasurable  possibili 
ties,  firm  in  the  conviction  that  any 
seemvng  fault  lies  not  in  the  plan  but 
rather  in  ourselves  and  in  our  inability 
to  rightly  sense  the  purpose  —  this  lit 
tle  volume  is  dedicated. 


904073 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

LIMITATIONS »      .      .  1 

THE  THREE  CAMPS        ....      ^      ...  4 

A  DIAGNOSIS       , 11 

THE   REGENERATION      ........  28 

LIFE   CONTINUOUS ,      .      .  83 

THE    GREAT    LAW 86 

THE  OPPORTUNITY  TO  LEARN 89 

THERE  Is  No  DEATH  ! 41 

PAIN         ........,,,..  42 

CHARITY        .      ..»,..,,.      .45 

FAITH       ....,..'».....  49 

MORALITY            , 52 

SCIENCE 55 

TRUTH 59 

PHILOSOPHY        , 62 

RELIGION 65 

THOUGHT 70 

LIFE'S.  JOURNEY       .      .      »     . 74 

THE  MIND  OF  CHILDHOOD  .      .      .      .      .      .      .86 

OLD  AGE       .      .      .     ,      .      .      .      .      .      .      .  90 

NATURE   AFTER   RAIN    .      .      ...      .      .      .  93 

A  REFLECTION 95 

THE  CHOICE       .      ...      .      .      .      ,      .      .  99 

THE  EVOLUTIONARY  PRINCIPLE                              .  103 


LIMITATIONS 

How  mighty,  yet  how  weak,  the  spoken  word! 

Strange  paradox,  so  oft  in  nature  found, 

This    mighty   weakness  —  this   weak   strength  — 

conferred 
By  Mother  Nature  upon  vocal  sound! 

At  times  like  lightning  flash,  in  words  of  fire 
The  living  thoughts  conveyed  by  human  speech 
Uplift  or  sink,  discourage  or  inspire, 
And   round   the  earth  reverberating  reach ; 
Firing,  perchance,  in  some  responsive  heart, 
Stirring  a  cord  in  some  receptive  brain 
That  loses  self  and  strives  to  do  its  part 
To  see,  advance,  to  conquer  and  attain ! 

And  yet  how  weak  are  words  e'en  to  convey 

Primal  emotions  which  our  senses  thrill! 

How  much  remains  which  we  would  fain  portray, 

Deep  sunk  in  silence,  unexpressed  and  still! 

Can  we  describe  the  fragrance  of  the  rose, 

The  after-glory  of  the  western  sky, 

The  beauty  that  the  opening  buds  disclose, 

The  inspiration  of  true  harmony? 

The  cooling  draught  to  one  on  desert  sands, 

The  faint,  caressing,  touch  of  infant  hands  — 

Can  words  convey  the  strange,  ecstatic  bliss 

Distilled  and  held  within  the  lover's  kiss? 

Each  moment  of  our  lives  our  senses  bring 

Across  the  void,  and  in  the  brain  implant, 

[1] 


Some  wireless  message  caught  upon  the  wing  — 

The  sense-response  to  outward  stimulant. 

Each  breath  we  draw  but  leaves  its  own  impress 

Upon  the  mind,  as  'pon  the  living  soul, 

Inspiring  joy,  indifference,  distress  — 

But  e'er,  in  one  or  other,  taking  toll! 

How  many  such  sensations  ne'er  arise 

Above  the  surface  of  our  consciousness ! 

How  few  that  do  can  we  at  all  devise 

To  clothe  in  words,  their  likeness  to  impress ! 

Sensations,  these,  above  the  power  of  speech; 

Beyond  the  spoken,  or  the  written,  word; 

Which  only  our  self-consciousness   can  reach  — 

Self-sensed,  indeed,  but  ne'er  by  others  heard! 

How  much  we  feel  that  we  can  never  fill 

Into  the  mould  of  words  —  try  as  we  will ! 

How  many  the  sensations  that  abound 

Beyond  the  reach  of  pen  or  vocal  sound ! 

And  these,  our  senses,  but  an  octave  space 

In  Nature's  keyboard,  can  no  other  be 

Than  five  brief  chords  wherewith,  indeed,  to  trace 

The  height  and  depth  of  Nature's  harmony ! 

With  five  weak  keys  might  we  as  well  essay 

The  tones  of  some  grand  symphony  portray, 

As  run  the  gamut  of  all  Nature's  scale 

With  our  five  senses,  limited  and  frail! 

What    heights    of    tone     above  —  what     depths 

below  — 

The  furthest  point  to  which  our  reach  may  go! 
What  range  of  sight  our  vision  fails  to  tell! 


m 


What  worlds,  indeed,  of  touch  and  taste  and 
smell ! 

Who  knows  but  that  the  flowers,  as  they  grow, 

Sing  songs  of  joy  —  glad  hymns  of  praise  re 
hearse, 

Or  that,  from  seeming  silence,  may  not  flow 

The  rhythmic  music  of  the  universe? 

What  depths  of  feeling  and  what  heights  of 
thought 

Lie  yet  in  store  —  far  on  upon  the  way ! 

With  what  potential  powers,  indeed,  are  fraught 

The  limitations  of  our  present  day! 

Silence  and  darkness  are  the  veils  that  she  — 

Our  Mother  Nature  —  draws  about  us  still ! 

This  much  we  hear  —  so  far  alone  we  see  — 

Until  our  destiny  we  here  fulfill! 

Naught  but  a  fragment  of  the  mighty  whole 

That  evolution  must  at  last  unroll ! 

No  more  than  this,  but,  even  so,  how  great 

An  inspiration  to  aspiring  soul ! 


[3] 


THE  THREE  CAMPS 

THIS  world  of  men  into  three  camps  is  split ;    • 

The  Thoughtless,  Skeptic  and  Idealist. 

But  of  the  three,  the  first  should  be  the  last, 

For  though  in  number  greater  far  than  both 

The  others,  still  his  kind  is  such 

That  he  must  follow  and  can  never  lead. 

His  is  the  sort  that  troubles  not  to  think; 

For  thinking  troubles,  and  all  things  that  do, 

Must,  by  the  constitution  of  his  brain, 

Be  pushed  aside,  cast  out,  or  clean  forgot. 

His  is  the  mind  that  centres  on  this  life; 

He  cannot  raise  his  eyes   from  off  the  ground; 

The  service  of  the  senses  is  his  aim, 

His  one  ambition  and  complete  desire. 

Life  is  a  balance  sheet  —  profit  and  loss  — 

Where  all  the  values  are  material; 

Where :     "  What  the  cost?  "  or  "  What  I  thereby 

gain?" 

Is  all  the  thought  the  subject  seems  to  claim. 
He  dwells  not  in  the  future,  nor  the  past ; 
The  thought  of  neither,  contemplation  stirs ; 
The  one  seems  dead  and  gone  and  long  forgot ; 
Impious,  the  other,  e'en  to  think  upon. 
Believes,  if  so  indeed  it  may  be  called, 
That  which,  before  him,  all  his  forbears  did; 
The  false  and  true  are  both  to  him  alike, 
So  that  they  but  be  sanctified  by  Time. 
Tradition  is  the  god  he  truly  serves, 
The  god  that  rules  him  in  the  realm  of  Thought. 
[4] 


No  folly  that  Tradition  passes  on, 

But  claims  the  homage  of  his  willing  knee; 

No  truth,  however  pure,  or  plain,  or  clear  — 

However  balanced  with  the  soul's  desires  — 

But  is  fit  subject  for  his  mirth  and  scorn 

Without  Tradition's  stamp  and  guaranty. 

Thus  doth  the  dead  hand  reach  from  out  the  grave 

And  lay  its  chilling  fingers  on  the  brain 

Of  him  who  worships  at  Tradition's  shrine. 

Far  less  in  number  is  the  Skeptic's  camp, 

For  to  belong  to  it,  he  needs  must  think ; 

And  thinking  upon  things  abstract  and  vague 

Is  food  too  shadowy  for  the  concrete  mind, 

Depending  on  a  coarser  fare  to  suit 

The  coarser  implement  by  which  it  lives 

On  this,  the  plane  of  the  Material. 

The  Skeptic's  thought  above  the  earth  is  raised; 

'Tis  tied  not  to  the  past,  nor  dreads  the  future; 

Indeed,  some  shred  of  reverence  were  good 

To  keep  his  mind  from  being  self-absorbed 

And  doubting  all  that  is  in  heaven  or  earth, 

Save  but  himself  —  of  whom  he  has  no  doubts. 

His  self-esteem  is  wonderful  to  see; 

"  All  things  to  me  are  known !  "  he  seems  to  say ; 

"  What  is.     What  is  not.     And  what  cannot  be !  " 

And  thus,  dogmatic'ly,  pursues  his  way. 

With  scissors  and  with  puny  measuring-rod 

He  clips  and  measures  all  that  doth  exist 

In  heaven  or  earth,  in  sea,  or  land,  or  sky, 

To  fit  the  cramped  conception  of  his  brain, 

[5] 


Saying :     "  Thus  is !     Nor  else  can  any  be !  " 
He    thinks;    indeed,    pregnant    his    mind    with 

thought, 

But  his  ideals  are  strangled  at  their  birth 
By  the  entangling  cord  of  egotism, 
And  lifeless  come  the  children  of  his  brain 
Because  they  lack  the  spirit  and  the  soul 
Which  give  the  life  unto  the  thing  itself. 
But  still  he  thinks,  and  therefore  doth  he  live, 
Howe'er  devoid  of  living  progeny. 
Could  he  but  grasp  that  little,  vital  truth  — 
The  truth  that  all  he  knows  is  still  not  all  — 
How  it  would  help  to  vitalize  his  thought 
And  stir  to  life  the  product  of  his  brain ! 

The  third  and  last,  and  yet,  indeed,  the  first  — 

He,  the  Idealist !     The  Dreamer  !     He 

In  number  is  in  sad  minority; 

In  volume  small,  but  great  in  quality ! 

Each  man  of  them  a  leader  is,  in  fact; 

Thoughtful,  reliant,  self-controlled  and  brave; 

And  needs  he  must  be,  for  the  arms  of  both 

The  others  are  against  him  turned. 

He  tempts  them  not  to  battle,  but  he'd  die 

Before  relinquishing  his  privilege 

To  see  Life  truly  through  his  eye  of  faith  — 

Faith  in  his  ideals,  in  himself,  in  all, 

As  but  faint  indications  of  a  truth 

Towards  which  all  tending  is,  in  time,  revealed. 

He  traces  in  his  mind  the  upward  path 

Leading  from  faint  amoeba  up  to  man  — 

[6] 


A  weary  journey  by  our  puny  gauge, 

But  by  Eternity  a  trifling  span 

That  is  and  is  not  as  we  think  thereon, 

So  brief  the  time  of  its  duration. 

And,  thinking  on't,  he  needs,  in  fact,  believe 

That  Man  as  now  conceived  is  not  the  goal  — 

The  final  goal,  at  least,  that  is  to  say  — 

Towards  which  all  life  has  tended  up  till  now. 

And  if,  indeed,  his  mind  be  logical, 

And  Reason  by  Emotion  not  controlled, 

He  must  perceive  that  Nature  makes  no  jumps, 

But  patiently  pursues  her  endless  way 

A'down  the  vista  of  eternal  time. 

As  through  the  seons  man  has  been  built  up 

In  body,  mind  and  soul  to  what  he  is, 

As  the  stalactite,  hanging  in  its  cave, 

Took  countless  ages  to  produce  itself, 

So  must  the  growth  continue,  slow  but  sure, 

Throughout  the  reaches  of  all  future  time. 

The  Thoughtless  says  he  is  by  this  deprived 

Of  a  reward  his  forbears  promised  him. 

To  him,  the  state  of  Death  would  seem  a  purge 

Whereby  he  is  discharged  of  earthly  sin 

And   all   his   nature   thereby   perfected. 

If  such  indeed  were  so,  I  wonder  who 

Would,  after  change,  himself  but  recognize! 

But  Nature  does  not  move  by  leaps  and  bounds, 

Nor  jump  from  finite  to  the  Infinite  — 

From  earthly  weakness  to  eternal  strength. 

"  Death  is  a  sleep  and  an  awakening !  " 

And  when  we  wake,  no  better  and  no  worse 

m 


Than  when,  indeed,  we  laid  us  down  to  sleep, 

With  all  our  imperfections  on  our  souls, 

The  journey  stretches  far  before  us  still. 

As  all  things  change,  indeed,  but  Change  itself  — 

As  naught  persists  but  Mutability  — 

Why    should   the   scheme  be   different   then   than 

now? 

Are  not  the  laws  of  Nature  there,  as  here? 
If  not,  you  say,  then  wherefore  say  you  so? 
Why  predicate  such  inconsistency  — 
Unless,  indeed,  like  some  of  earth's  puffed-up, 
You  act  as  Infinite's  interpreter? 
But  to  the  Thoughtless  and  the  Skeptic  too, 
The  senses  seem  the  final  ultimates ; 
To  see,  to  hear,  to  taste,  to  feel,  to  smell, 
The  court  of  last  resort  —  the  bench  supreme. 
To  them,  what  cannot  by  these  measurements 
Be  gauged,  explained,  allotted  to  its  sphere, 
Cannot  exist  —  as  judged  by  their  decree. 
But  to  the  Dreamer,  all  the  senses  are 
But  as  five  puny  octaves  on  the  board 
That  stretches  both  ways  to  infinitude. 
For  in  the  plan  of  Nature's  harmony 
The  key-board  stretches  out  continuously 
From  infinite  great  to  still  more  infinite  small; 
From  worlds  compared  with  which  our  little  globe 
Is  but  a  trifling  asteroid  in  space, 
To  molecule,  electron  and  to  atom, 
Each  one  a  solar  system  in  itself. 
What  happens  'neath,  or  'bove,  the  little  span 
To  which  his  senses  furnish  him  the  key, 

[8] 


How   can  man  say :     "  This   can,"  or  "  Cannot 

be"? 

Thus  to  their  limit  his  five  senses  come; 
Beyond  the  which  he  is,  perforce,  estopped 
If  he  would  prove  what  out  beyond  them  lies. 
But  here  the  Dreamer,  with  a  finer  sense  — 
That  of  Perception,  true,  intuitive  — 
With  vision  clear  and  mind  unprejudiced, 
Unhampered  by  opinion  preconceived, 
With  all  his  spiritual  faculties  awake, 
Reaches  beyond  the  boundary  recognized. 
He  knows  that,  for  this  earth  and  all  thereon, 
The  five  material  senses  are  complete ; 
But  also  knows,  if  one  would  rise  from  there, 
And  measure  elements  as  light  as  air, 
He  must  these  higher  senses  recognize 
And  then  develop  to  his  utmost  power. 
In  doing  that  he  but  develops  that 
Within  himself  which  is  himself  indeed; 
Far  more  himself  than  his  material  form, 
A  thing  unstable  and  ephemeral, 
Which  comes  and  goes  within  a  summer's  day. 
And  while  he  thus  within  himself  lays  up 
A  treasure  greater  far  than  lands  or  gold, 
Who  knows  but  that,  perchance,  he  may  alight 
Upon  a  little  grain  of  shining  Truth, 
As  yet  unfound  by  other  searchers  here, 
Which,  when  more  clearly  seen  by  other  eyes, 
Will  add  a  lustre  to  their  daily  lives 
Which  formerly  naught  else  within  them  brought? 
Thus,  with  his  feet  upon  the  earth,  his  eyes 

[9] 


Are  ever  turned  unto  the  cloudless  skies, 

For  there  his  vision  ever  beckons  on 

Towards  states  of  thought  and  feeling  to  be  won. 


[10] 


A  DIAGNOSIS 

The  ills  that  soul  is  heir  to. 

SHOULD  some  wise  moral  doctor  but  appear  — 

Some  great  physician  of  the  human  mind, 

Diagnostician  of  the  inner  man  — 

What  symptoms  here  within  us  would  he  find 

Most  rampant  and  productive  of  that  strife 

Which  saps  the  very  marrow  of  our  life?  — 

A  strife,  compared  with  which  the  body  ills 

That  flesh  is  heir  to,  do  but  sink  and  wane 

To  something  insignificant  and  small  — 

A  passing  phase  of  this  the  thing  called  Pain! 

For  ailments  of  the  body  ne'er  impress 

A  lasting  stigma  on  the  living  soul, 

Nor  cause  that  suffering  and  dire  distress 

Which,  from  the  heart,  demand  such  heavy  toll ! 

Perchance  he'd  find  Subjection  in  a  few  — 
That  strange  paralysis  of  will  and  mind 
Which  e'er  must  act  as  it  is  told  to  do, 
And  thus  its  will  to  other  will  but  bind !  — 
An  abject  state  of  utter  slavery 
Which  lacks  the  strength  the  other  to  refute, 
Controlled  by  naught  but  thieving  knavery 
Which  other  self,  to  self,  would  prostitute ! 
How  sad  a  state  of  mind  and  thought  and  soul 
Thus  to  renounce  its  own,  its  proper,  goal, 
And  thus  to  place  all  that  which  is  divine 
Beyond  the  limits  of  its  own  control ! 

[11] 


But  while  our  learned  doctor  in  his  quest 

May  find  some  such,  he'll  find  at  hand  and  near 

Unnumbered  thousands  who  are  all  oppressed 

By  some  phase  of  a  strange,  malignant  Fear, 

For  many  phases  has  this  malady, 

To  ever  teeming  offspring  it  gives  birth, 

Which  find  their  lodgment  in  the  soul  of  Man  — 

These  parasites  that  populate  the  earth! 

For  from  Despair  and  Dread,  Horror,  Dismay  — 

These  lusty  children  of  the  parent  Fear  — 

To  mere  Suspicion  and  weak  Bashfulness, 

Or  shy  Alarm,  some  of  them  ever  leer 

Upon  us  with  their  dull,  evasive  eyes, 

Causing  an  instant  chilling  of  the  heart, 

And  prompting  doubt,  distrust,  or  wild  surmise, — 

A  checkened  breath,  involuntary  start! 

How  many  people  recognize  them  all 

As  products  of  the  one  and  self-same  womb, 

Or  realize,  when  subject  to  their  call, 

How  much  their  presence  robs,  of  life,  the  bloom? 

For  as  the  budding  flower  of  early  May 

Is  turned  by  frost  to  something  dull  and  grey, 

So  life  itself  becomes  but  sad  and  drear 

When  haunted  by  the  progeny  of  Fear! 

And  though  the  one  be  wild,  the  other  tame, 

And  different  means  to  common  end  employ, 

The  net  result  in  all  is  quite  the  same 

And  life  is  robbed  of  all  its  hope  and  joy, 

For  all  ,but  freeze  and  paralyze  the  soul  — 

Some  fast,  some  slow,  but,  slowly,  just  as  sure  — 

[12] 


And  all  but  lead  unto  the  self-same  goal 

And  render  life  a  thing  but  to  endure! 

How  many  who  are  otherwise  exempt, 

To  foolish  superstition  pay  a  toll  ! 

And  though  their  reason  treat  it  with  contempt, 

Must  thus  to  some  vague  Fear  make  this  their 

dole! 

Some  foolish  trick,  far  back  in  childhood  taught 
By  Ignorance  to  Weakness,  is  their  ban! 
With    such    results    such    things   as    these    are 

fraught ! 

Such  little  things  as  these  unman  a  man ! 
For  superstition  can  but  ever  grow 
With  that  'pon  which  it  feeds,  and  thus  and  so, 
From  small  beginnings  doth  it  now  and  here 
Lay  the  foundations  of  a  greater  Fear! 
How  oft  is  trusting  childhood  blindly  led  — 
Sometimes  by  age,  with  white  and  hoary  head  — 
To  scan  the  new  moon  clearly  while  he  may, 
Or  suffer  from  some  dim  and  nameless  dread? 
'Tis  bad  enough,  and  sad  enough,  forsooth, 
To  see  such  lack  of  reason  in  old  age, 
But  criminal  thus  to  instil  in  youth 
And  leave  a  blot  upon  its  spotless  page! 
Refrigeration  this!     No  more,  no  less! 
Psychic  refrigeration  that  doth  hold 
The  life  in  pawn,  and  freezingly  would  dress 
All  life  in  its  stark,  adamantine  cold! 
Perhaps,  of  all  the  many  ills  of  Man, 
No  other  so  upsets  his  every  plan, 

[13] 


Or  holds  above  him  such  relentless  hand 

With  which  to  curb,  subdue,  constrain,  command ! 

This  being  so,  were't  not,  indeed,  but  wise 
That  to  this  pregnant  fact  he  ope  his  eyes, 
And  strive  by  self-analysis  to  find 
To  what  extent  it  dominates  his  mind? 
For  if  to  forewarn  is  but  to  forearm, 
The  knowledge  should  but  strengthen,  not  alarm, 
And  thus  realization  serve  to  be 
The  power  that  puts  him  'yond  the  reach  of  harm ! 
But  many  fail  to  see  to  what  extent 
They  are  by  Fear  but  twisted,  warped  and  bent ; 
How  large  a  part  it  plays  within  their  life ; 
How,  in  some  phase,  it  is  forever  rife! 
Forgetting  self,  it  oft  becomes  alarm 
That  loved  ones  may  be  subject  to  some  harm; 
And  e'en  solicitude  becomes  a  bane, 
Bringing  mistrust,  anxiety  and  pain. 
Thus  Apprehension  and  Anxiety, 
Despondency,  Timidity  and  Dread 
Are  but  the  offspring  of  the  parent  Fear  — 
Those  evil  forces  which  of  Fear  are  bred! 
It  matters  not  if  for  another's  sake 
We  give  them  lodgment,  or  permit  that  they 
Control  our  lives,  for,  in  the  final  stake, 
'Tis  our's  the  loss  —  as  our's  the  debt  to  pay ! 
For  they  can  never  but  disorganize, 
Attack,  reduce,  destroy,  but  ne'er  defend 
That  which,  within,  we  should  most  greatly  prize, 
And  cause  disintegration  in  the  end! 
[14] 


Offsetting  this,  another  influence  doth 
Most  frequently  within  our  lives  appear  — 
One  that,  indeed,  is  quite  the  opposite 
And  the  direct  antithesis  of  Fear. 
But  in  some  of  its  many  varied  shades, 
Within  us  all  it  plays  no  minor  part, 
And  oft  usurps  the  centre  of  the  stage, 
Affecting  mind  and  soul,  as  well  as  heart. 
For  —  unlike  Fear  that  slowly  doth  congeal, 
Doth  freeze  and  paralyze  will  and  desire  — 
Anger  would  quite  another  form  reveal 
And  shows  itself  as  a  consuming  fire! 
Psychic  Combustion  'tis  !  —  a  withering  flame 
That  sears  and  scorches  both  the  heart  and  soul 
Of  him  who  bends  to  its  malignant  sway 
Through  weakness  or  a  lack  of  self-control! 
And,  even  as  Fear,  it  has  its  many  shades 
That  range  from  Fury,  Desperation,  Hate  — 
From   Wrath,   Revenge  —  those  violent  passions 

which 

Their  appetities  'pon  others  crave  to  sate  — 
To  simple  Irritation,  Bitterness, 
Small  Pettishness,  Annoyance  and  weak  Pique, 
Which  claim  no  bloody  victim,  but  which  still 
Some  small  revenge  would  'pon  another  wreak. 
All  are  but  scions  of  the  self-same  house !  — 
All  Anger's  offspring,  children  of  the  flame 
That  burns  and  withers,  and  —  if  slow  or  fast  — 
Destruction  wrought  by  each  must  be  the  same! 
For  as  in  pride  the  Ancients  used  to  boast 
That  every  road  but  led  at  last  to  Rome, 
[15] 


So  here  the  course,  if  crooked  or  if  straight, 
If  but  pursued,  to  the  same  end  must  come; 
And  be  the  finish  far  or  be  it  near, 
Persistence  leads  at  last  unto  that  goal 
That's     reached     by     other     ways,     indeed,     by 

Fear  — 
Final  Annihilation  of  the  Soul! 

And  from  these  two  there  is  another  ill 
Combined,  which  takes  from  both  of  them  a  part  — 
That  virus  which  we  know  as  Jealousy, 
That  deadly  poison  of  the  human  heart. 
For  does  it  not  but  demonstrate  a  fear 
At  losing  that  which  it  would  call  its  own, 
And    anger   at   th'   attempt   which  prompts    re 
venge 

To   make   another   suffer  and   atone? 
This    trait'rous    thing  —  this    green-eyed    Jeal 
ousy  — 

Stalks  as  a  spectral  shape  through  many  a  life, 
Curdling  the  milk  of  all  true  charity 
And  sowing  discord,  bitterness  and  strife! 

And  many  suffer  from  cruel  Envy's  fangs  — 
That  blighting  scourge  that  cannot  contemplate 
Another's  fortune,  but  must  feel  the  pangs 
Of  sorrow,  disappointment,  and  of  hate! 
That  thing  which  blinds  to  what  we  have   and 

begs 
For  what  we  have  not;  which  must  ever  dwell 

[16] 


Upon  those  others  —  turning  but  to  dregs 
The  cup  of  life,  and  earth  into  a  hell ! 

And  would  not  this  our  doctor  also  find 
That  Self-indulgence  played  a  mighty  part 
In  the  corruption  of  the  human  mind, 
The  undermining  of  the  human  heart? 
For  Self-indulgence,  of  the  many  things 
That  sap  the  soul,  the  ammunition  brings 
And  lays  the  plans  for  the  unending  strife 
Against  the  very  citadel  of  Life !  — 
Indulgence  of  our  anger  and  our  fear, 
Indulgence  of  our  passions  physical, 
Indulgence  of  our  mental  weaknesses, 
Indulgences  of  states  emotional. 
For  even  this,  the  latter  —  even  that 
Emotion  which,  religious,  we  profess  — 
Can  by  Indulgence  be  but  carried  far, 
Far  down  the  pathway  of  destructiveness. 
Thus  Temperance  must  be  the  word  that  we 
Inscribe  upon  the  banner  of  our  soul, 
And  temperate  in  all  things  we  must  be 
In  this  our  progress  towards  the  final  goal! 
For  there's  no  passion,  appetite,  desire, 
Emotion,  impulse,  or  ambition  which 
Itself  is  right,  but  still  that  may  not  be 
By  Self-indulgence  carried  to  excess ! 
And  he  must  be,  indeed,  both  strong  and  wise 
Must  know  himself  and  study  well  the  signs, 
Appraise  conditions  and  himself  apprize 

[17] 


When   they   have   crossed   the   true   constructive 

lines ! 

Thus  must  he  ever  be  upon  his  guard 
Gainst  self-indulgence  of  the  many  things 
That  growth  of  mind  and  spirit  would  retard 
And  which  this  modern  life  so  often  brings. 
Mere  creature  comfort,  animal  desire, 
The  thirst  for  power  and  might,  the  greed  for 

gold 

And  for  material  things,  if  he  aspire 
To  greater  heights,  he  must  indeed  withhold ; 
For  he  must  first  be  master  of  himself, 
And  till  he  be,  he  holds  no  honored  place! 
And  though  his  coffers  be  o'ercrammed  with  pelf, 
He  has  but  started  in  the  mighty  race ! 
For  he  alone  is  masterful  who  can 
Give  latitude,  within  constructive  lines, 
To  these  his  impulses,  nor  mar  the  plan 
By  Nature  drawn,  nor  thwart  her  just  designs! 

But,  in  his  diagnosis,  would  not  this 
Our  great  physician  quickly  come  to  see 
How  many  suffer  from  another  ill  — 
That  all-besetting  one  called  Vanity? 
For  Vanity,  of  body  or»of  mind, 
Is  seldom  very  difficult  to  find ! 
And  from  some  phase  of  it  so  few  are  free 
'Twould  seem  almost  universality. 
Conceit  of  person,  or  conceit  of  mind, 
The  one,  the  other,  or  of  both  combined  — 
Whate'er  our  nation  or  our  parentage  — 
[18] 


Would  seem  to  all  a  common  heritage! 
The  first,  of  women  the  besetting  sin; 
The  latter,  most  monopolized  by  men; 
But  both,  in  both,  or  in  the  other,  found; 
And  most  luxuriant  where  least  the  ground! 
It  hath,  like  other  ills,  full  many  ways 
Of  action,  and  demands  that  others  see, 
And  in  return  grant  a  due  meed  of  praise 
That  we  are  e'en  as  we  would  seem  to  be. 
Pride  of  Intelligence  and  Pride  of  Thought 
With  suicidal  tendencies   are  fraught, 
Become  o'erbearing  and  give  birth  to  all 
That  Self-Esteem  that  topples  to  a  fall! 
How  very  rarely  'tis,  indeed,  we  find 
The  man  prepared  to  listen,  not  to  preach ! 
How  joyously  we  welcome  such  a  mind  — 
The  mind  that  is  content  to  learn  —  not  teach ! 
For  in  our  self-conceited  arrogance, 
How  many  hold  to  that  they  really  know, 
And  would  not  'pon  some  other  mind  impress 
That  which  they  merely  think  is  such  and  so? 
How  rampant  in  religion  is  this  fault! 
How  many  creeds  are  under  this,  its  sway! 
How  common,  Common  Truth  thus  to  default 
By  claiming  this,  our  own,  the  only  way ! 
If  we  should  Arrogance  and  Self-Esteem 
Denounce  as  vile,  should  we  expect  to  search 
Here  for  that  simple  Charity  we  deem 
The  one  true  offspring  of  a  "  Holy  Church  "? 
For,  blinded  by  their  self-esteem,  can  they 
Ever  true  leaders  of  the  blinded  be? 
[19] 


While  deaf  to  all  but  that  which  they  would  say  — 
Steeped  in  such  self-assuring  Vanity! 
For  who,  forsooth,  can  lead  that  will  not  learn 
And  who  knows  Truth,  that  Truth,  indeed,  would 


spurn 


And  who  of  Light  can  other  minds  apprize, 

Who  shuts  his  own  and  strives  to  shut  their  eyes? 

Not  all,  indeed,  do  thus  so  grossly  sin, 

But  many  do!     And  they  should  bear  their  part 

Of  just  rebuke,  and  should,  indeed,  begin 

To  search  for  Truth  within  the  mind  and  heart. 

If  they'd  assume  all  Truth  is  not  yet  found 

And  in  some  ancient  treatise  firmly  bound, 

And  search  for  it  within  the  living  soul, 

They  might,  indeed,  come  nearer  to  the  goal! 

Perchance   if   charity   of  thought   they'd   sow, 

Such  planting  might  to  fuller  harvest  grow, 

And  teeming  granaries  replace  those,  now, 

Which  ever-dwindling  store  indeed  but  show ! 

If  from  Tradition's  drying  carcass  they 

Would  strive  to  loose,  as  now  they  strive  to  bind, 

Can  any  doubt  that  the  result  would  pay 

In  strengthened  heart  and  spirit,  soul  and  mind? 

For  how  can  living  prosper  with  the  dead, 

Or  Thought  advance  when  by  Tradition  led? 

And  how  can  thirsty  mind  succeed  to  drink, 

When    Truth    is    shunned    and   brain    denied    to 

think? 

God  gave  us  brains  to  think  and  minds  to  use, 
And  if  we  fail  to,  we  His  gifts  abuse, 
For  Self-Deceit  is  nothing  but  deceit, 
[20] 


Nor  any  less  if  fathered  by  Conceit! 

Therefore  is  Vanity  indeed  a  curse 

In  many  ways  'twere  needless  to  rehearse; 

And  if  we  be  but  honest,  we  must  see 

That  from  some  form  at  least  we're  seldom  free! 

Thus  is  it  ever  best  to  fully  ope' 

Our  eyes  to  Truth  —  distasteful  though  it  be  — 

For  herein  lies  salvation  and  true  hope  — 

Salvation  from  a  dense  obscurity! 

Pride  —  proper  pride  —  in  what  we  are  and  do, 

True  self-respect  —  not  self-complacency  — 

If  rightly  earned,  is  nothing  but  our  due 

And  will  not  flower  in  self-sufficiency! 

For  is  the  soul  not  able  to  decide 

When  it  is  right?     And  is  not  worthy  pride 

And  self-respect  and  proper  self-regard 

But  Nature's  due  and  merited  reward? 

But  we  must  e'er  be  honest  with  ourselves, 

And  study  self  as  if  a  thing  apart, 

Nor  let  blind,  selfish  sophistry  create 

Fictitious  reasons  for  the  mind  and  heart ! 

And  yet  one  other  ill,  at  least,  would  not 

Our  great  physician  find?  —  A  slow  disease 

That  eats  the  very  vitals  of  the  heart 

And  mind  and  soul  of  him  whom  it  doth  seize? 

As  Anger  is  combustion,  and  as  Fear 

In  slow  refrigeration  takes  its  toll, 

Self-Pity,  so  pathetic,  weak  and  drear, 

Is  but  consumption  of  the  living  soul ! 

A  psychic  phthisis,  dull  and  desolate, 


That  slow  but  surely  ever  eats  its  way 
Into  the  soul  of  him  who  harbors  it 
And  turns  all  life  into  a  dismal  grey! 
'Tis  largely  based  upon  assumption  that 
His,  of  all  others,  are  the  greatest  hurts  — 
That  God,  or  Nature,  or  Intelligence, 
Withholds  from  him  alone  his  just  deserts! 
With  Envy,  shares  conviction  of  the  fact 
That  others  have  what  to  him  is  denied, 
And  this  but  poisons  every  thought  and  act 
And  comes  at  last  to  be  a  cause  of  pride  — 
Pride  that  his  own  misfortunes  are  so  great, 
So  greater,  far,  than  any  have  to  bear, 
Pride  in  his  misery,  his  weakened  state 
Of  which  he  thinks  no  other  is  aware! 
A  thing  debasing,  sickly,  weak  and  mean; 
Containing  nothing  of  virility; 
That  cannot  see,  though  yet  by  others  seen, 
That  it  leads  straight  to  imbecility! 
He  sues  for  pity,  understanding,  help; 
Demands  that  all  should  listen  to  his  wail 
And  sympathize  with  his  misfortune;  and 
Where'er  he  goes  he  leaves  his  slimy  trail  — 
A  trail  that,  first  inspiring  but  distrust, 
At  last  inspires  but  nausea  and  disgust; 
A  trail  whose  stenches  vitiate  the  air 
And  render  it  impossible  to  bear! 
And  ever  is  his  cry  for  sympathy, 
Full  understanding  of  his  awful  woe, 
Ne'er  recking  that  his  course  but  dries  the  spring 
From  which  true  sympathy  must  ever  flow, 
[22] 


But  like  a  pestilential  plague  he  goes, 

Spreading  contagion  of  his  fancied  woes 

And  thus,  self-blinded,  e'er  pursues  his  course 

And  checks  the  stream  of  love  e'en  at  its  source ! 

For  happiness  to  these  can  never  be, 

Unless  unhappiness  they  ever  spread; 

And,  being  bound,  they  would  but  bind  the  free 

To  this  their  selfish  misery  and  dread! 

'Tis  marvelous  the  stock  of  misery 

That  from  one  such  as  this  can  be  derived, 

And  the  amount  of  joy  and  gaiety 

Of  which  this  life  by  one  can  be  deprived ! 

Of  all  the  plagues  that  human  life  may  gall, 

This  drivelling  weakness  seems  the  worst  of  all !  — 

This  thing  devoid  of  shame,  from  hope  exempt; 

Beyond  all  sympathy;  beneath  contempt! 

If  such  as  these  would  their  possessions  gauge 

By  their  deserts,  perchance  it  might  assuage 

This  selfish  pity  and  assist  to  show 

How  little  owed,  compared  with  what  they  owe ! 

Perchance  these  martyrs  constitutional 

Would  cease  their  wailing  and  unending  strife, 

Becoming  debtors  restitutional 

To  these,  their  suffering  fellows  and  to  life. 

No  doubt  possessions  balance  our  deserts, 

For  what  the  first  but  that  which  Man  converts 

From  out  of  life,  and  makes  a  conscious  part 

Of  this,  his  mind  and  brain  and  soul  and  heart? 

For  all  men's  efforts  point  to  but  one  end ; 

To  all  alike  is  Happiness  the  goal 

[23] 


And  naught  esteemed  that  does  not  towards  this 

tend  — 

This  the  unerring  instinct  of  the  soul ! 
But  many  but  mistake  what  this  will  bring, 
And  all  their  time  and  effort  blindly  fling 
Into  some  cause  which,  when  achieved  and  past, 
They  find  but  dust  and  ashes  at  the  last! 
And  thus  the  man  whose  object  is  but  gold, 
May  pile  up  wealth  and  riches  manifold, 
To  find  that  Happiness  itself  has  fled 
To  him  who  labors  for  his  daily  bread ! 
For  Happiness  is  not  bound  up  in  wealth, 
In  power,  in  station,  or  in  body  health, 
But  may  be  found  in  one,  in  all  these  poor, 
Who  yet  of  it  doth  hold  a  goodly  store. 
What  is  it  but  contentment  of  the  mind?  — 
An  attitude  of  soul  that  still  can  find  — 
Without  these  strange  necessities  of  Man  — 
A  conscious  harmony  with  Nature's  plan? 
For,  to  possess  at  all,  we  needs  must  use  — 
And  use  aright  —  else  we  do  but  abuse 
These  same  possessions  which,  indeed,  but  goad, 
With  obligation  added  to  the  load! 
Thus,  to  receive,  we  also  have  to  give, 
For  who  that  does  not,  can  be  said  to  live? 
And  this  same  giving  ne'er  depletes  our  store, 
But  ever  brings  us  riches  more  and  more ! 
And  gifts  are  gifts,  no  matter  what  they  be, 
If  that  they  be  but  that  which  others  need  — 
Not  what   they  crave,  but   that  which   one   can 
see 


Will,  if  but  planted,  come  to  flowering  seed. 

A  little  sympathy,  a  kindly  word, 

A  just  appreciation  of  the  worth, — 

But  little  things,  indeed,  though  seldom  heard, 

And ,  though    so    cheap,    conspicuous    by    their 

dearth ! 

Sometimes,  indeed,  a  little  word  of  cheer, 
A  hearty  grasp  of  such  a  friendly  hand, 
May  change  a  prospect  desolate  and  drear, 
And  cause  a  drooping  spirit  to  expand ! 
How  little  means  a  legacy  of  gold, 
Bequeathed  by   the   necessity   of  death, 
If  favors  such  as  these  we  would  withhold 
\Vhich  cost  us  nothing  but  a  little  breath ! 
A  little  breath,  a  little  kindly  thought, 
A   little  effort,  and   some   self-control  — 
With  what  a  store  of  wealth,  indeed,  are  fraught 
These,  the  donations  of  the  living  soul ! 
'Tis  this  penuriousness  that  doth  offend 
In  those  who  in  self-pity  ever  live ; 
For  they'd  receive  forever  without  end, 
Nor  recognize  at  all  the  need  to  give. 
And  true  perception  of  this  fault  alone, 
Within  the  soul,  but  prompts  that  we  atone 
Therefor  by  shutting  up  or  draining  dry 
The  flood  of  sympathy  for  which  they  cry. 

Thus  have  we  tried,  if  faultily,  to  scan 
These  the  most  common  sicknesses  of  Man, 
Which  would  be  found  in  part,  if  not  in  whole, 
By  some  diagnostician  of  the  soul. 
[25] 


And  few,  if  any,  would  be  found  quite  free  — 
Howe'er  they  seem,  or  would  appear  to  be  — 
Of  some  such  symptom,  be  it  strong  or  faint, 
That  would  to  him  portray  their  true  complaint. 
But  many  to  such  symptoms  would  be  blind; 
Would  fail  to  look,  or  —  looking  —  fail  to  find ; 
And  thus,  self-blinded,  gain  a  fleeting  ease, 
But  leave  unchecked  a  ravaging  disease! 
Thus  do  the  thoughtless,  ignorant  and  crude, 
E'en  as  the  ostrich  when  by  Man  pursued, 
They  hide  their  eyes  and  stifle  their  alarm 
And  think  thereby  they  have  escaped  all  harm! 
But  such  self-blindness  never  served  its  end; 
It  serves  but  to  disarm,  not  to  forefend. 
Realization  of  a  fault  must  first 
Supply  material  with  which  to  mend. 

Then  would  not  this,  our  doctor,  first  insist 

That  this,  our  case,  can  offer  little  hope 

Until  self-blindness  firmly  we  resist 

And  grant  to  self-analysis   full  scope? 

And  would  not  also  his  prescription  be 

That  thought  and  mind  must  function  full  and 

free  — 

Unbound,  unhampered,  by  Tradition's  hand, 
Untrammelled  by   conventional  demand? 
And  as  a  tonic  would  not  he  decide 
That  temperance  in  all  must  be  our  guide  — 
Our  watchword  and  our  stay  in  time  of  need, 
Our  gauge  to  measure  thought  and  speech  and 

deed  — 

[26] 


And  'neath  this  even  our  emotions  bring, 
Which,  left  unchecked,  would  this  our  reason  fling 
Out  of  its  course,  deprive  of  all  command, 
And  headlong  run,  without  a  guiding  hand? 
And  would  not  Temperance,  if  thus  pursued  — 
Thus  supplicated,  importuned  and  wooed  — 
Give  birth  at  last,  indeed,  to  Self-Control  — 
That  prime  essential  of  the  growing  soul? 
For  Self-Control,  once  born,  will  grow  in  strength, 
In  power,  in  scope,  in  knowledge,  till  at  length 
It  quite  o'ercomes  these  ills  and  sets  Man  free 
To  be  what  Nature  meant  that  he  should  be! 
And  thus  Subjection,  Anger,  Envy,  Fear, 
Self-Pity,  Self-indulgence,  Vanity    — 
Of  mind  or  body  —  also  Jealousy, 
Will  from  his  constitution  disappear! 
Then  —  and  then  only  —  is  he  truly  free ! 
Then  —  and   then   only  —  can  he  clearly   see ! 
Then  will  he  but  conform  to  Nature's  Plan! 
Then  —  not  till  then  —  can  he  be  called  a  Man ! 


[27] 


THE  REGENERATION 

OF  all  the  ages  since  the  world  began  — 
Cleft,  subdivided  to  that  little  span 
Allotted  unto  man  —  would  seem  to  be 
The  present  fraught  with  possibility ! 
A  generation,  this,  that  stands  beyond 
All  generations  that  have  gone  before; 
More  fraught  with  change,  deep  and  significant; 
More  large  and  pregnant  with  a  coming  life; 
More  full  of  thought  and  feeling  infinite 
Than  any  other  since  the  birth  of  Time  — 
Of  Time,  that  is,  applied  to  things  known  here; 
For  who  can  say  that  in  the  lapse  of  time 
Whereof  our  own  is  but  a  moment's  breath, 
In  other  worlds,  as  yet  to  us  unknown, 
The  very  forces  that  are  rampant  now 
Have  not  the  battle  fought,  'gain  and  again  ? 
Who,  pray,  are  we  that  we  should  predicate 
That  this,  our  little  world,  is  of  them  all 
The  first,  the  one  and  only,  battle  ground 
Whereon  the  forces  Good  and  Evil  wage 
That  fierce  and  bloody,  that  unending,  fight  — 
Begun,  no  doubt,  e'en  with  the  birth  of  Time, 
And  doubtless  to  be  fought  till  Time  shall  end? 
But  now  and  here,  upon  this  mundane  sphere, 
Forces  are  loose  and  actively  at  work 
Such  as  were  never  known  by  man  before 
So  far  as  history  guides  our  reckoning! 
Is  it,  perchance,  the  harvest  we  have  sown? 
The  reaping  of  the  crop  material? 
[28] 


The  true  and  just  fruition  of  that  fruit 

Which  we  have  nurtured  with  material  lives? 

In  thoughtless  pride  and  puny  arrogance ; 

In  egotism  and  in  self-conceit; 

In  thought  alone  of  power,  esteem  and  wealth ;  — 

Have  we,  perchance,  but  undermined  the  health 

Of  mind,  of  body  and  of  soul  as  well, 

Until  with  some  the  soul  has  pined  and  died? 

Such  are,  or  such  at  least  would  seem  to  be, 

They  who  stake  all  upon  material  force; 

Who  think  the  only  law  The-Will-to-Have, 

When  backed   and   strengthened  by   The-Will-to 

Hold; 

Who  dream  not  of  the  rights  of  other  men  — 
Their  thoughts,  their  feelings,  or  their  soul's  de 
sire  — 

But  only  of  themselves,  and  how,  and  when 
They  can  but  gain  that  to  which  they  aspire! 
The  god  Material  Force  they  have  enshrined, 
To  whom  they  humbly  bend  the  knee  and  pray ; 
Those  that  agree  with  them  are  friends,  opined; 
But,  execrated,  those  who  block  the  way! 
'Gainst  these  are  now  arrayed  another  class  — 
Not  blameless  all,  nor  yet,  indeed,  quite  free 
Of  that  same  scourge,  the  plague  Materialism, 
But  feeling  'neath  their  superficial  lives 
The  swelling  of  that  other  mighty  Force, 
The  birth-pains  of  that  new  Idealism 
Which   throbs   their  pulses,   quickening   in   their 

souls 
The  strong  conviction  that  Man  must  be  free! 

[29] 


Free  to  pursue  his  own,  his  native  course, 

In  thought,  in  action  and  in  government, 

Without  coercion  and  extraneous  force, 

Towards  that  goal  —  his  greatest  own  content! 

Life ;  liberty ;  pursuit  of  happiness ! 

The  rights  inalienable  of  each  soul! 

No  more  should  man  possess ;  and  never  less 

Must  be  his  object  and  his  final  goal! 

And  here  and  now  they  wage  the  bitter  fight  — 

The  God  Material,  the  God  of  Power, 

Against  that  other  god  —  the  God  of  Right ! 

And  as  they  rage,  the  heavens  darkly  lower 

And  over  all  the  world  has  spread  a  gloom 

As  though  presaging  now  the  Day  of  Doom! 

Wars  still !     And  rumors,  still,  of  other  wars ! 

And  nation  against  nation  has  arisen! 

And  people  against  people!     Yea!  in  lands 

As  yet  not  risen  in  embattlement ! 

Nor  yet  are  signs  and  portents  far  to  seek  — 

The  signs  of  great  and  deep  and  broad  unrest, 

The  portent  of  illimitable  surge, 

Of  flux  and  change  and  constant  ebb  and  flow 

Throughout  the  masses  of  humanity ! 

And    few    men    know    their    neighbors,    or    their 

friends, 

For  brother  against  brother  is  offset; 
And  no   man  knows   what  each  day's   sun   may 

bring, 

Nor  what  tomorrow  has  in  store  for  him ! 
What   mean   these   signs,   these   portents   of   the 

times, 

[30] 


These  frank  misgivings  and  this  doubt  of  self, 
Which  make  us  hesitate  to  say:     "  I  know! " 
Knowing  how  little  'tis,  indeed,  we  know? 
What  mean,  I  say,  these  questions  and  this  doubt, 
This  sorrow  and  this  suffering  o'er  the  earth, 
Unless  it  be  intended  but  to  flout 
Our  petty  self-conceit  and  mark  the  birth 
Of  new  conceptions  and  idealism? 
For  greater  birth-pains  here  have  ne'er  been  felt ; 
They  must,  it  seems,  some  greater  birth  presage 
Than  e'er  delivered  yet  this  Earth  has  been ! 
Some  birth  portentous,  high,  serene,  alone 
Could  compensate  for  these  pre-natal  pains 
Which  otherwise  would  seem  to  mock  and  jeer 
Our  puny  efforts  and  ambitions  here ! 
A  silver  lining  has  indeed  the  Time 
Which   otherwise  seems  overwrought  and  sad, 
For  in  the  heart  and  soul  of  every  man 
The  little,  active  leaven  is  at  work, 
Making  him  think  what  ne'er  he  thought  before; 
Withdrawing  from  himself  his  constant  gaze, 
And  rivetting  the  heart  and  soul  of  him 
Upon  conceptions  of  the  Right  and  Wrong, — 
Upon  the  ideals  born  within  himself, 
Which,  up  till  now,  indeed,  were  yet  still-born 
And  had  not  quickened  into  active  life! 
Such  is  the  Time !     And  such  the  lesson  we 
Can  master,  if  we  have  but  eyes  to  see 
And  ears  to  hear  and  brains,  indeed,  to  think, 
While  nation  wars  with  nation  on  the  brink 
Of  what  seems  now  an  awful  precipice! 
[31] 


And  therefore  thank  I  now  that  Higher  Power 
That  hath  permitted  me  the  present  hour 
In  which  to  draw  my  little  span  of  breath, 
E'en  if,  by  doing  so,  I  must,  by  death 
Upon  the  battle-field,  relinquish  it! 
For  what  more  fitting  end  to  earthly  life 
Than  render  it  again  in  final  strife 
Against  the  Power  of  Wrong,  and,  in  the  fight, 
Die  that  I  may  but  help  uphold  The  Right? 


LIFE  CONTINUOUS 

THERE  is  no  death  if  by  that  word  you  mean 
The  change  of  "  being  "  into  something  "  been," 
"  Is  "  into  "  was,"  and  "  present  "  into  "  past," 
And  "  passing  life  "  to  "  life  already  passed  " ! 
For  what,  this  life,  but  the  initial  school  — 
The  kindergarten,  so  to  speak,  of  Man, 
Of  conscious  Man,  who  here  must  learn  the  rule 
Of  what  he  cannot  do,  and  what  he  can? 
For  many  ages  in  the  nursery 
Were  passed  e'er  mind  and  soul  became  so  strong 
That  Man  was  conscious  of  his  consciousness  — 
Fit  to  distinguish  'twixt  the  Right  and  Wrong! 
And  so  this  present  life  is  but  the  test 
Wherein  our  knowledge  and  experience 
Prompt  to  such  action  as  to  us  seems  best 
Wherewith  to  gain  the  proper  recompense 
For  all  that  we  have  felt  and  done  while  here ! 
But  here  the  way  is  somewhat  hard  to  see, 
And  things  appear  not  as  they  really  be; 
Emotion  here  is  checked  by  Reason  there; 
And  Reason  and  Emotion  must  compare 
With  Conscience  as  the  final  arbiter! 
Our  obligations  and  our  rights  we  learn, 
Both  to  ourselves  and  to  our  fellow  man; 
The  which  to  give,  the  which,  again,  to  spurn, 
To  check  our  lives  by  the  eternal  plan 
Which  Nature  has  laid  down  as  her  decree! 
And  with  our  dispositions  manifold  — 
Our  strength,  our  weakness,  our  heredity, 
[33] 


The  tempt'  to  lust,  to  power,  the  tempt'  of  gold  • 
The  way  is  very  often  hard  to  see 
And  we  are  lost  in  great  perplexity ! 
Here  in  the  school  of  life  we  are  to  seek 
The  lessons  Life  can  teach  to  every  one, 
Convert  to  strength  that  which  within  is  weak, 
And  learn  our  utmost  e'er  the  day  be  done! 
And  when  from  out  this  school  we  graduate 
Unto  another,  we  continue  there 
The  self-same  progress  and  development 
On  the  foundations  we  but  started  here! 
What  else  could  mean  this  life's  experience, 
This  progress,  this  advance  of  mind  and  soul, 
If  it,  indeed,  were  something  separate 
And  not  but  part  of  the  same  mighty  whole 
That  stretches  forward  to  Eternity? 
What  mocking  of  our  earnest  efforts  here, 
If  we  were  not  the  due  reward  to  gain 
Of  these  same  efforts,  or  had  cause  to  fear 
That  all  had  been  but  useless  waste  and  pain! 
I  would  not  so  insult  Intelligence  — 
The  Great  Intelligence,  or  e'en  that  part 
Of  it  which  is  contained  within  each  soul 
And  quickens  to  the  beating  of  each  heart. 
For  'twould  indeed  be  but  a  sorry  jest 
Thus  to  reach  out  the  cup  unto  the  lips 
But  to  withdraw  and  dash  our  hopes  when  we 
Had  all  but  clasped  it  with  our  finger  tips ! 

"  E'en  as  ye  sow,  so,  also,  shall  ye  reap ! " 
Aye !  so  it  is !     And  e'en  it  must  be  so ! 
[84] 


Or  else  attribute  to  Intelligence 
Motives  that  are  contemptible  and  low! 
And  so  again  I  say :     There  is  no  death  — 
No  death,  at  least,  such  as  we  oft  allow; 
But  a  progressing  continuity 
That  reaches  from  the  present  Here  and  Now, 
Unbroken,  to  the  future  There  and  Then! 
Again  I  say:     This  life  is  but  a  part 
Of  life  continuous  —  that  mighty  whole 
Which,  if  denied  by  mind,  is  not  by  heart  — 
And  is  the  aspiration  of  the  soul! 


[35] 


THE  GREAT  LAW 

As  everything  within  this  world  of  ours 
And  all  the  kingdoms  that  it  doth  include  — 
If  we  except,  alone,  the  soul,  the  mind, 
The    thought,    the    "  being,"    the    self-conscious 
ness  — 

Can,  in  the  final,  last  analysis, 
Unto  the  simple  atom  be  reduced, 
So  doth  it  often  seem  to  me  that  all 
The  seeming  complex  laws  that  govern  us  — 
Those  laws  of  Nature  infinite  and  great  — 
Must  be  resolved  at  last  into  but  one! 
Into  one  single,  great,  but  simple  law, 
So  great  and  single  that  it  doth  contain 
All  other  laws  combined;  so  simple  that 
We  have  o'erlooked  it  quite,  straining  our  eyes 
And  meagre  brains  to  find  far,  far  afield 
The  vital  truth  that  here  before  us  lies. 
What  law  of  Nature  is  it  that  doth  cause 
The  atom  to  attract  or  to  repel 
Its  neighbor  atom,  deep  within  the  breast 
Of  cold  and  flinty  rock  inanimate? 
What  law  of  Nature  causes  sap  to  rise 
Within  the  greening  branches  of  the  tree, 
And  makes  the  opening  leaf  or  flower  apprize 
Us  of  a  life  where  life  seemed  not  to  be? 
What  law  produces  the  organic  life 
Exemplified  in  animal  and  man 
And  from  spermatic,  microscopic  cell 
Builds  up,  upon  undeviating  plan, 
[36] 


That  strange  and  complicated  organism? 

What  law  so  works  upon  all  planes  of  life? 

What  causes,  in  the  field  of  Chemistry, 

Those  same  attractions  and  repulsions  which 

Give  life  again  to  other  things  that  be? 

What  makes  the  rain  to  fall ;  the  wind  to  blow ; 

The  river  ever  to  the  ocean  flow; 

The  stone  to  drop;  the  earth,  indeed,  to  turn 

Within  its  orbit  round  the  central  sun? 

And  what,  again,  that  law  that  doth  attract 

Body  to  body ;  mind  to  other  mind ; 

And  soul,  again,  unto  another  soul, 

As  atom  unto  atom  in  the  rock? 

When  long  upon  the  subject  the  mind  thinks 

Do  not  they  every  one  appear  to  be 

Sep'rate,  but  still  united,  little  links 

Within  the  great  chain  of  Affinity? 

By  many  names  this  law,  indeed,  is  called, 

And  many  laws,  in  this  one,  seem  to  be. 

But  what  is  in  the  name,  whate'er  'tis  called, 

If  we  the  law  itself  but  plainly  see? 

'Tis   true  we  see  it  as  "  vibration's  law," 

Which  as  a  law  of  science  we  recognize, 

But  still,  as  yet,  how  dimly  do  we  grasp 

All  that  it  means  and  all  that  it  implies ! 

For  we  but  set  aside  a  little  space 

Within  the  field  of  Nature  for  its  play, 

Saying :     "  Thus   far  —  no   farther  —  shalt  thou 

As  though  this  law  of  laws  should  us  obey! 
And  thus  we  try  to  fence  and  hedge  it  round; 
[37] 


Refuse  to  look;  or,  looking,  fail  to  see 

That  it  doth  govern  all  that  doth  exist 

In  heaven  or  earth,  or  land,  or  sky,  or  sea ! 

There  is  a  principle  m  Nature  that 

Impels  each  conscious  individual 

To  seek  a  vibratory  correspondence  with 

Another  individual  such  as  he, 

But  of  an  opposite  polarity. 

And  through  all  Nature  runs  this  principle  — 

Through  all  the  kingdoms  up  to  that  of  Man, 

In  which,  indeed,  it  flowers  and  comes  to  fruit, 

So  far  as  we  can  know  fruition  here; 

For  here  attraction  is  not  chemical, 

Nor  yet  alone  attraction  physical, 

But  both  of  these  combined  and,  with  them,  that 

Of  mind  and  soul  —  attraction  spiritual ! 

Such  as  it  is  and  great  as  it  may  be, 

It  here  can  give  us  but  a  faint  foretaste 

Of  all  that  lies  in  store  for  us  when  we 

Have  graduated  to  a  higher  state! 

For  who  can  set  a  limit  to  the  soul 

And  all  the  joys  that  therein  dormant  lie 

When  part  to  part  is  joined  in  perfect  whole  — 

A  whole  complete  and  pure,  serene  and  high  — 

A  whole  comprising  perfect  unity? 

But  Time,  in  its  unending  course,  shall  prove 

That  all  things  on  the  earth  —  in  heaven  above  — 

Howe'er  unconsciously,  obey  and  move 

To  this  affinity  —  this  Law  of  Love ! 


[38] 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  TO  LEARN 

"  It  is  worth  noting  that  the  opportunities  for  which  Dr. 
Abraham  Jacobi  expressed  a  sense  of  obligation  on  his 
eighty-sixth  birthday,  were  '  the  opportunities  to  learn.' 
The  young  hospital  interne  doesn't  always  see  it  that  way." 
—  Newspaper  clipping. 

A  LEARNED  doctor  once  did  truly  say, 
When  he  had  reached  unto  a  ripe  old  age  — 
When  four  score  years  and  six  behind  him  lay 
And  he  reputed  as  a  learned  sage  — 
That  of  all  the  earth's  opportunities 
For  which  the  heart  may  pine  or  soul  may  yearn, 
The  greatest  far,  at  last,  appeared  to  him 
The  simple  opportunity  to  learn! 


For  this  he  felt  an  obligation  which 

Outranked  all  others  that  upon  him  lay, 

An  obligation  unto  life,  the  which 

He  felt  his  inability  to  pay! 

If  any  other  word  he  ne'er  had  spoke, 

And  if  twice  four  score  were  instead  his  age, 

The  recognition  of  this  truth  alone 

Were  fit  to  stamp  him  as  a  very  sage ! 

For  what,  indeed,  are  opportunities 

To  wealth,  to  power,  to  all  for  which  we  burn, 

Compared  with  this  —  the  greatest  of  them  all  — 

The  simple  opportunity  to  learn? 

For  wealth  and  power  are  but  a  transient  phase  — 

Things  that  but  come  and  go;  a  passing  breath; 

A  phantom  form,  appearing  from  the  haze, 

[39] 


No  sooner  grasped  than  lost  again  by  death ! 
As  children,  chasing  bubbles  on  the  stream, — 
Striving  to  grasp  them  ere  they  reach  the  shore, — 
Get  for  their  pains  a  momentary  gleam 
And  ope'  their  hands  to  find  they  are  no  more ! 
But  learning  is  unlike  both  power  and  wealth; 
Unsought  by  thieves ;  untouched  by  moth  or  rust ; 
Free  from  attack,  both  open  and  by  stealth ; 
Unlike  our  bodies  changing  back  to  dust ; 
For  learning  is  a  conscious  part  of  us, 
A  part  of  that  within  which  is  the  whole, 
That  thing  within  us  which,  indeed,  is  US  — 
The  living,  conscious,  everlasting  soul! 


[40] 


THERE  IS  NO  DEATH! 

THERE  is  no  death ! 
The  thing  that  we  call  death 
Is  but  a  passing  cession  of  the  breath ! 

No  more! 

Afraid  to  die? 
Are  you  afraid  to  sleep? 

No  more  therein  your  consciousness  you  keep- 
E'en  less ! 

Afraid  to  wake? 
Are  you  afraid  to  ope' 

Your  eyes  to  each  new  day  and  its  new  hope? 

Not  so! 

Then  why  fear  death? 
Its  coming  rather  greet 
As  portal  leading  to  life  more  complete 

Than  now! 

There  is  no  death ! 
The  thought  is  but  a  vain 
Phantasmagoria  cast  upon  the  brain 

Of  us! 

There  is  no  Death ! 


[41] 


PAIN 

I  SOMETIMES  think  that  that  which  we  call  "  Pain  " 
Is  not  a  loss,  but  rather  is  a  gain 
If  we  can  find  and  bring  within  our  reach 
The  lesson  'tis  intended  but  to  teach! 
If  that  our  lives  conformed  to  Nature's  plan, 
And  from  all  evil  we  should  thus  abstain, 
Would  there,  indeed,  be  cause  for  such  a  ban, 
Or  rhyme  or  reason  for  the  thing  called  Pain? 
Is't  not,  indeed,  the  way  that  Nature  hath 
Of  teaching  wisdom  to  our  fleeting  day, 
Advising  when  our  feet  are  in  the  path 
And  warning  when  in  other  ways  they  stray? 
Be  it  a  lack  of  knowledge,  or  a  fault 
Of  mind,  of  reason,  or  pure  physical 
Indulgence  to  some  passing,  brief  desire  — 
Surrender  to  a  state  emotional  — 
Whate'er  the  field  wherein  our  fault  doth  lie, 
If  contravening  one  of  Nature's  laws, 
Pain  comes  to  warn  us  that  we  must  comply 
As  sure  as  that  effect  doth  follow  cause! 
'Tis  true  that  pain  from  others'  faults  may  come, 
And  thus  bring  to  our  own  an  added  sum, 
For  we  cannot  live  to  ourselves  alone, 
But  must  in  part  for  others'  faults  atone. 
Yet  in  such  cases  are  we  always  free 
Of  share  in  the  responsibility  — 
Our  minds  so  true,  our  eyes  so  clear  to  see 
That  things  are  always  as  they  seem  to  be? 
But  if  with  such  a  fault  we  have  no  part  — 
[43] 


If  it  be  none  of  ours,  but  his  in  whole  — 

Does  not  conviction  stir  within  the  heart 

And  whisper  its  assurance  to  the  soul? 

We  suffer,  yes!  but  suffer  not  as  we 

Would  suffer  if  the  fault  within  us  lay, 

For  something  tells  us  that  of  guilt  we're  free  — 

Not  ours  the  score  to  meet,  the  debt  to  pay ! 

Perchance  for  love  we'd  gladly  share  the  load 

In  part  or  whole,  to  make  another  free, 

But  even  then  it  fails  in  part  to  goad, 

Being  lightened  of  responsibility. 

'Tis  this,  indeed,  that  adds  the  greatest  weight 
To  any  load  of  pain  that  we  may  bear, 
The  which,  if  conscience  doth  at  all  abate, 
Is  by  comparison  as  light  as  air ! 
Is  't  not,  indeed,  a  strange  provision,  this, 
Of  Nature,  which  by  conscience  doth  atone 
To  light  a  burden  that  for  love  we  bear  — 
A  burden  which,  indeed,  is  not  our  own? 
For  though  the  pain  be  very  great  indeed, 
And  though  the  journey  seem  a  weary  length, 
No  doubts  and  fears  our  footsteps  then  impede 
And  we  are  armed  with  a  new  inner  strength. 
And  thus  I  say  that  Pain  does  hold  a  place 
Within  the  scheme  of  things,  within  the  plan 
Laid  out  by  Nature  for  the  human  race, 
Developed  from  the  animal  to  Man! 
The  brute  no  conscience  has ;  no  right  and  wrong ; 
No  false  and  true;  no  higher  loss  and  gain; 
No  promptings  that  above  the  earth  belong, 
[43] 


And  without  which  there  can  be  little  pain ! 

Thus,  without  Pain,  could  man  indeed  be  Man? 

Is't  not,  indeed,  the  hardening  alloy 

That  strengthens  character  and,  in  the  span 

Of  this  short  life,  points  out  the  way  to  joy? 

And  even  here  cannot  we  pain  escape  — 

Much  pain,  at  least  —  if  but  in  wisdom  each 

Would  so  his  course  of  life  and  action  shape 

To  learn  the  lesson  Nature  has  to  teach? 

We  cannot,  of  ourselves,  her  laws  reform 

And  change  what  is  to  what  we  think  should  be; 

Is't  not,  then,  better  freely  to  conform, 

Attempt  to  look  and,  looking,  strive  to  see? 

'Tis  Nature's  law  and  she  is  ever  just; 

And  recognize  it  in  the  end,  we  must! 

Then  why  not  now?     And  so  convert  our  pain 

From  seeming  loss  to  everlasting  gain! 


[44] 


CHARITY 

WHAT  is  the  meaning  of  that  word  which  we 
So  oft  and  glibly  use  —  that  "  Charity  "  ? 
So  much  employed,  its  meaning  clear  should  be, 
And  one  'pon  which  all  people  can  agree! 
To  some  it  stands  for  an  innocuous  state  — 
A  neutral  ground,  devoid  of  any  hate  — 
Presided  over  by  the  little  dove 
Of  peace  —  in  short,  a  state  of  perfect  love, 
Wherein  we're  taught  to  love  our  enemies, 
Respect  those  who  ourselves  do  but  despise, 
Return  but  good  for  evil  done  to  us, 
That  thus  within  us  greater  good  may  rise. 
Mayhap  to  these,  the  few,  'twould  bring  a  boon 
In  humbleness  and  self-control  that  soon 
Would  blossom  forth ;  but  what  must  we  infer 
For  those,  the  others  —  they,  the  ones  that  err? 
If  humbleness  and  self-control  bear  fruit 
Of  passing  worth  to  them  that  exercise 
These  virtues,  what  the  crop,  forsooth, 
Of  those  who  these  same  virtues  but  despise? 
Will  not,  indeed,  their  appetite  but  grow 
With  that  'pon  which  it  feeds,  and  will  not  so 
Their  evil  instincts  more  and  more  control 
The  ever  fainter  whisper  of  the  soul? 
Is  't  by  providing  drink,  indeed,  that  we 
Teach  weakness  lessons  of  sobriety? 
Or  is  it,  rather,  with  emphatic  "  No ! 
Thus  far  thou  mayest  —  but  no  farther  —  go !  "? 
Even  he  —  the  man  we  call  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
[45] 


Who  many  the  true  Son  of  God  profess  — 
Bowed  not  before  the  strength  of  evil  thus, 
Or  carried  Charity  to  such  excess ! 
Else  would  the  money-changers  not  have  had 
Free  access  to  the  temple's  sacred  ground? 
And  what  about  the  Scribes  and  Pharisees 
'Gainst  whom  he  uttered  warnings  so  profound? 
For  pride  and  arrogance  and  self-conceit 
Found  ever  words  appropriate  and  meet  — 
Words  full  of  power,  reproach  and  clarity  — 
But  never  words  of  simple  charity ! 
These  he  kept  rather  for  the  poor  and  weak; 
For  those  who  failed,  indeed,  but  still  would  seek 
For  something  higher  than  their  own  desire  — 
Those  who,  in  short,  had  souls  that  could  aspire. 
'Tis  true  he  taught  us  not  to  search  the  mote 
Within  our  neighbor's  eye ;  but  would  this  seem 
Thus  truly  to  imply  we  should  not  note 
That  this,  our  neighbor's  eye,  contained  the  beam? 
For  thus  is  good  advice  oft  carried  far 
Beyond  the  point  that  it  was  meant  to  go, 
Bringing  alone  confusion  to  the  mind, 
And  thus  converting  "  Yes  "  into  a  "  No  " ! 
He  who  has  failed,  or  sinned,  or  done  aught  else 
That's  possible  to  man,  e'en  with  intent 
To  do  the  same,  should  have  our  charity 
If,  conscious  of  his  guilt,  he  doth  repent. 
But  he  who  sees  no  wrong  in  what  he  does  — 
In  arrogant  esteem  admits  no  blame  — 
Thereby  alone  our  charity  should  lose, 
And  be  no  whit  entitled  to  the  same! 
[46] 


Perchance  you  answer  that  he  cannot  see; 
But  most  can  see  if  but  they  only  would, 
And  those  that  won't  must  of  our  charity 
Be  thus  deprived  for  the  common  good. 
Thus,  and  thus  only,  can  they  ever  be 
Convinced  at  last  of  their  iniquity! 
Thus  only  are  their  eyes  restored  to  sight 
Wherewith  to  recognize  their  neighbor's  right! 
However  lofty,  worthy   of  esteem, 
A  noble,  gen'rous  principle  may  seem, 
We  can  but  weaken  —  can  but  dull  its  gleam  — 
By  carrying  to  unreasoning  extreme. 
Even  religion  can  become  obsessed 
So  with  itself  that  it  doth  lose  the  best 
Of  its  true  message  to  the  hungry  soul, 
Developing  emotion  —  not  control ! 
The  reeling  drunkard,  quite  bereft  of  wit, 
With  nerves  and  senses  dulled,  submerged  in  drink, 
Less  base  would  seem  than  thus  our  souls  per 
mit 

In  such  emotional  debauch  to  sink ! 
The  one  but  bids  a  passing,  brief  farewell 
To  these,  his  senses  purely  physical; 
But  he,  the  other,  would  his  reason  sell, 
Renouncing  something  intellectual! 
Thus  even  Charity  should  be  controlled, 
And  we  this  greatest  gift  should  quite  withhold 
From  those  whose  selfishness  'twould  but  pervert, 
And  give  to  those  for  whom  'tis  just  desert! 
Within  each  soul  the  secret  is  supplied 
To  this,  the  constant,  never  failing  guide 
[47] 


Which  whispers :     "  Charity  should  be  applied 
Only  where  reasoning  conscience  doth  provide 
The  answer,  which  can  always  be  relied 
Upon  to  teach  us  truly  to  decide ! " 


[48] 


FAITH 

"  Faith  is  the  intuitive  conviction  of  that  which  both  reason 
and  conscience  approve." — School  of  Natural  Science. 

SOME  words  are  hard  exactly  to  define    — 
Make  unambiguous  and  plain  to  see, 
And  their  true  meaning  rigidly  confine 
Within  the  limits  of  authority. 
Such  words  to  many  men  appear  unlike; 
To  many  shades  of  meaning  they  relate, 
With  the  result  that,  when  we  use  them,  we 
Each  other's  thoughts  but  dimly  'proximate. 

i 
And    one    of    these  —  that    thing    we    know    as 

"  Faith  "— 

Of  many  shades  of  meaning  has  no  dearth; 
As  many  shades,  indeed,  as  tongues  to  speak, 
As  ears  to  hear,  or  brains  to  give  it  birth! 
Would  not  this  little  word  so  often  used, 
So  oft  applied,  misquoted  and  abused, 
Gain  value  if  from  all  the  tongues  it  came, 
As  to  receiving  ears,  it  meant  the  same? 
To  some  men  faith  would  seem  to  be  a  state 
Of  mind  where  Nature's  laws  we  must  defy, 
And  these  to  no  experience  relate, 
And  thus  the  human  brain  to  stultify! 
Were  not  these  minds  provided  us  to  use, 
And  to  develop  under  Nature's  plan? 
And  if  we  fail,  do  not  we  but  abuse 
The  greatest  gift  of  Nature  unto  Man? 
For  why  should  we  thus  prostitute  the  mind, 
[49] 


And  to  the  question  give  a  ready  "  Aye !  " 

When  "  No !  "  is  but  the  answer  that  we  find  — 

When,  as  we  do,  we  know  that  we  but  lie? 

Therefore  I  say  a  faith  that  doth  resist 

The  promptings  of  our  reason  and  insist 

Upon  that  which  the  mind  can  never  lend, 

Is  faith  debased  to  an  evil  end! 

Has  not  unreasoning  faith  produced  a  type 

Who  "  faith  "  indeed  —  if  so  it  be  —  have  won 

By  keeping  mind  from  e'er  becoming  ripe, 

Preventing  thought  from  dwelling  thereupon? 

But  what  the  value  of  such  faith  as  this, 

Which,  to  believe,  must  never  dare  to  think, 

The  which  to  do  but  opens  an  abyss 

At  which  the  doubter  trembles  on  the  brink? 

Not  Faith,  but  Superstition,  this,  indeed ! 

Full  brother  to  an  old  Dogmatic  Creed 

By  Ignorance  begot!     The  legacy 

Of  Crude  Tradition  to  posterity! 

But  there  is  faith  of  quite  another  sort; 
A  faith  in  which  we  can  uplift  our  eyes ; 
Which  needs  not  that  our  reason  we  distort; 
A  gift,  'bove  others,  which  we  most  should  prize! 
It  is  a  gift  untinged  with  abject  fear  — 
No  bastard  child  of  pure  Malignity  — 
But  something  reasonable,  plain  and  clear, 
That  raises  Man  to  a  new  dignity! 
"  Faith  is  conviction,  clear,  intuitive, 
Of    that    which   reasoning    conscience   doth    ap 
prove!  " 

[50] 


No  thing  of  utter  unbelief,  towards  which 
Unreasoning  emotion  would  us  move! 
Such  faith  as  this  gives  dignity  to  life; 
New  strength  and  courage  to  the  soul  of  man ; 
New  hope;  new  effort  in  the  constant  strife 
To  live  in  sympathy  with  Nature's  plan. 
And  thus  the  gifts  of  Nature  do  we  use, 
Respect,  conserve,  develop  —  not  abuse! 
Thus  we  the  Master's  talent  do  employ, 
And  thereby  gain  resulting  peace  and  joy! 


MORALITY 

"  Morality  is  the  established  harmonic  relation  which  man, 
as  an  individual  intelligence,  sustains  to  the  constructive 
principle  of  nature." —  School  of  Natural  Science. 

COULD  any  other  definition  give, 
More  truly  than  the  one  above  displayed, 
The  soul,  the  essence  and  the  inner  truth 
Of  that  thing  which  we  call  "  Morality  "? 
Is't  not,  indeed,  a  meaning  that  appeals 
To  all,  whate'er  their  state  of  life  may  be, 
Whate'er  may  be  their  true  development 
Of  mind,  of  soul,  of  spirit  and  of  thought? 
This  does  not  lay  down  hard  and  rigid  rules ; 
Enact  those  laws  which  bear  unjustly  on 
Either  the  one  whose  slow  development 
Forever  keeps  him  plodding  in  the  rear, 
Or  yet  on  him,  that  far  developed  man, 
Whose  place  is  always  in  the  foremost  van 
Of  this,  the  army  of  humanity. 
'Tis  fit  for  him  who  leads  and  him  who  lags, 
As  well  as  for  that  far,  far  greater  force 
Which  slowly,  often  painfully,  but  drags 
Its  rule-bound  life  o'er  this  allotted  course. 
This  meaning  tells  us  not  of  written  laws 
By  man  enacted  —  laws  that  can  but  bear 
More  heavily  on  some  than  others  if 
They  be  but  suited  to  the  average. 
It  whispers  nothing  of  tradition's  sway, 
Nor  guides  the  modern  by  the  ancient  way, 
Telling  that  this,  or  that,  decree  should  last 

[52] 


Because  'twas  formulated  in  the  past. 

Nor  does  it  indicate  those  other  laws  — 

Those  strange,  unwritten,  silent  laws  that  we 

Impose  upon  our  neighbors  and  ourselves  — 

Those  laws  of  pure  conventionality. 

Nor  yet  it  speaks  of  those  laws  called  divine  — 

Those    laws    which    on    Mt.    Sinai's    slopes    were 

given 

To  those  rude  people  who  themselves  opined 
The  only  chosen  of  the  God  of  heaven. 
The  only  law  it  tells  of  is  that  law 
Which  whispers  in  the  conscious  soul  of  Man 
And  guides  his  every  action  by  its  urge 
Towards  this  the  single  and  eternal  plan 
Laid  down  by  the  Supreme  Intelligence. 
For  every  soul  has  that  within  itself 
By  which  it  is  enabled  clear  to  see 
When  discord  reigns  within,  or  when,  instead, 
All  is  consistent  with  true  harmony. 
An  instinct  'tis  that  we  cannot  define  — 
Cannot  explain,  or  prove  by  rule  or  line  — 
But  still  'tis  there,  beyond  our  will's  control, 
A  primal  instinct  of  the  living  soul ! 
An  instinct,  this,  quite  individual  — 
Not  subject  to  coercion  or  to  sway, 
E'en  by   ourselves  —  but   one  which  ever  points 
With  true  precision  to  the  proper  way. 
For  Man  himself  must  be  the  final  judge 
Of  thought  and  act  which,  outwardly  concealed, 
Are  ever  'fore  his  Consciousness  arraigned, 
And  his  most  inmost  impulse  here  revealed! 

[53] 


It  matters  not  how  much  he  would  excuse, 

Or  higher  motive  to  his  act  ascribe, 

Such  case  before  this  court  he'll  ever  lose  — 

This  court  above  both  sophistry  and  bribe! 

Does  not  this  definition  give  to  Man 

A  reasoning  purpose  in  the  mighty  plan, 

Conferring  'pon  him  a  new  dignity, 

And  on  his  soul  a  fuller  sovereignty? 

And  as  he  ever  has  this  inner  guide 

Which  harmony  and  discord  thus  defines, 

So  has  he  also  that  within  which  tells 

When  these,  his  acts,  are  on  constructive  lines. 

Destruction  spells  but  discord  —  never  less ! 

This  truth  we  might  as  well  at  once  confess; 

And  true  construction  must  forever  be 

In  full  accord  with  all  true  harmony; 

For  Nature  is  in  all  harmonious, 

And  harmony  the  essence  of  her  sway; 

From  which  it  follows  that  construction  must 

But  represent  at  last  true  Nature's  way! 

'Tis  marvelous  how  Nature  thus  has  set, 

Deep  down  within  the  soul  of  every  man, 

This  secret  answer  to  her  purposes, 

This  little  key  to  her  eternal  plan! 

For  as  the  iron  to  the  magnet  points  — 

As  points  the  compass  to  the  distant  pole  — 

To  Nature's  plan,  true  and  unerringly, 

Forever  points  the  compass  of  the  soul! 


[«*] 


SCIENCE 

"  Science  is  exact  knowlede  of  the  facts  of  nature,  classi 
fied  and  systematized." — School  of  Natural  Science. 

WITHIN  this  little  word  there  is  contained 
Much  of  the  sum  of  knowledge  and  of  truth 
Which  by  Man  so  laboriously  has  been 
Extracted  from  the  bulk  of  Nature's  store. 
How  much  it  seems  when  we  look  back  upon 
The  first  beginnings  of  the  early  man 
And  note  how  vastly  it  has  waxed  and  grown 
Within   the  recent,  pure  historic  span! 
And  yet  how  little  'tis  if  but  compared 
With  those  the  secrets  Nature  holds  in  store 
For  those  whose  mind  and  thought  are  so  pre 
pared 

To  wrest  from  out  her  bosom  more  and  more ! 
'Tis  like  the  petty  pilferings  of  a  child  — 
A  trifling  little  sum,  a  thing  of  dearth  — 
Which  'mounts  to  nothing,  when  'tis  all  compiled, 
Compared  with  all  the  riches  of  the  earth! 
And  e'en  as  children,  arrogant  and  proud 
Of  these,  their  little  hoardings,  Man  would  seem 
At  times  to  feel  that  he  has  learned  it  all, 
And  from  all  knowledge  skimmed  the  very  cream! 
For  often,  blinded  by  his  present  gain, 
In  self-sufficiency,  cannot  abstain 
From  bold  assertion,  with  much  pomp  and  show, 
That  he,  in  fact,  knows  all  there  is  to  know; 
For  when  he  dubs  a  thing  "  Unknowable  " 
And  others'  efforts  thereby  would  restrain, 
[55] 


What  is  it  but  an  intimation  that 

All  knowledge  is  contained  within  his  brain? 

Else  wherefore  should  he  thus  profess  to  speak 

About  another  —  or  about  that  field 

Wherein  he  works  —  when  others  also  seek 

What,  lost  to  him,  to  them  may  be  revealed? 

'Tis  but  a  petty  arrogance  of  thought 

That  thus  'pon  other  thought  would  put  a  ban ; 

Desire  alone  to  teach  —  not  to  be  taught  — 

An  indication  of  the  child  in  Man! 

And  others,  with  more  self-conceit  than  they, 

While  ridiculing  this,  their  neighbor's  cause, 

Would  their  own  suppositions  e'en  portray 

As  representing  truly  Nature's  laws ! 

While  delving  in  the  field  of  Nature,  they 

May  chance  upon  a  little  grain  of  truth 

As  yet  unfound,  wherewith  they  would,  forsooth, 

Erect  an  edifice  sublime,  profound, 

But  without  width  of  base  or  depth  of  ground. 

Thus  are  these  towering  structures  often  built 

Of  suppositions,  bold,  unique  and  grand, 

Which   fain  would  tower  to   Heaven,  but  which 

can't 

Because  they  have  foundations  on  the  sand! 
For  Science  is  alone  concerned  with  facts ; 
And  knowledge,  not  hypothesis,  its  due; 
And  thus  these  towering  edifices  fall 
If  these  foundations  prove  at  last  untrue ! 
How  well  if  those  of  scientific  bent 
Would  with  their  own  true  field  but  be  content, 
And  in  the  chain  of  knowledge  forge  their  link 

[56] 


While  granting  others  equal  right  to  think! 
The  chain,  indeed,  is  great  enough;  and  ought 
Not     knowledge     found    inspire     the    knowledge 

sought  ? 

For  fact  ne'er  yet  did  fact  annihilate, 
But  further  search  for  fact  but  stimulate. 
That  seeming  fact  which  other  fact  would  prove 
A  thing  untrue,  'twere  better  we  remove 
From  out  our  consciousness  and  build  again 
Some  other  structure  that  will  bear  the  strain. 
True  Science  has  no  place  —  far  less  a  need  — 
For  superstition,  dogma,  or  for  creed, 
Its  own  or  others',  or  should  cherish  ruth 
For  that  which  crumbles  'neath  the  light  of  Truth. 
And  if  its  own  delusions  it  would  spurn 
As  quick  as  now  on  others'  it  would  turn, 
How  much  of  wastage  could  be  cleared  away 
That  now  obstructs  the  shining  light  of  day ! 
For  thoughts  outgrown  are  thoughts  we  should 

remove, 

Lest  their  continued  presence  do  but  prove 
An  obstacle  to  fuller  thought,  forsooth  — 
A  thought  more  pregnant  with  the  vital  truth. 
And  we  must  fully  realize  that  we 
Cannot  dictate  what  can,  and  cannot,  be; 
Cannot,  indeed,  erect  a  fence  as  though 
To  say :  "  Beyond  this  Man  can  never  go  " ! 
When  we  our  false  hypotheses  discard 
And  our  small  store  of  knowledge  but  discern, 
Nor  let  the  word  "  Unknowable  "  retard, 
Then  —  not  till  then  —  will  we  be  ripe  to  learn. 
[57] 


When  all  these  childish  traits  we  have  outgrown, 
How    much    now    "  Unknown "    will    become    the 

"  Known  " ! 

With  what  a  crop  the  field  of  Nature  sown! 
How  vast,  indeed,  the  future  prospect  shown! 


[58] 


TRUTH 

"  Truth  is  the  established  relation  which  the  facts  of  Na 
ture  sustain  to  each  other  and  to  the  individual  intelligence 
or  soul  of  man." —  School  of  Natural  Science. 

How  small  a  word  is  this,  indeed,  to  hold 
A  thing  so  vital  to  the  soul  of  Man ! 
How  frail  a  compass  wherein  to  incase 
The  inner  essence  of  all  Nature's  plan! 
But  Truth  is  often  paradoxical, 
And  often  true  that  which  appears  absurd; 
Therefore  why  marvel  at  the  height  and  depth 
Of  greatness  held  within  this  little  word? 
Nor  should  we  marvel  if,  indeed,  at  times 
Its  fuller  meaning  should  escape  our  clutch, 
When  we  consider  that  five  letters  form 
The  small  receptacle  that  holds  so  much! 
For  some  this  little  word  would  greatly  stretch 
Far,  far  beyond  its  meaning  and  its  due, 
And  thus  make  of  it  but  a  cloak  with  which 
To  cover  much  that  is,  indeed,  untrue; 
For  Truth  to  some  is  as  they,  only,  see  — 
Not  that  which  is,  but  what  they  think  should  be, 
And  to  such  people  'tis  a  great  surprise 
That  all  the  world  cannot  see  through  their  eyes ! 
But  is  the  vision  of  the  worm  as  true 
As  of  the  eagle,  soaring  in  the  blue? 
Can  light-blind  bat  that  in  the  sunlight  blinks 
Compare  his  orb  with  the  far-seeing  lynx  ? 
And  even  so  it  is  the  case  with  Man, 
For  some  cannot  perceive  what  others  can ; 
[59] 


And  some,  indeed,  deny  that  that  can  be 
Which  to  a  truer  sight  is  plain  to  see. 
But  here,  within  the  kingdom  of  the  Man, 
The  field  is  broader  far  and  hard  to  scan, 
For  to  his  vision  purely  physical 
Are  added  others  intellectual; 
And  'pon  them  all  a  moral  field  imposed  — 
A  field  to  which  some  human  eyes  are  closed ! 
Thus  if  we  find  such  great  disparity 
Within  a  kingdom  of  a  single  field, 
Would  not  it  seem,  indeed,  a  rarity 
If  different  eyes  the  same  result  revealed 
In  this,  a  region  where  much  is  concealed? 
For  here  the  sight  is  not  of  things  so  plain  — 
Of  things  that  we  may  touch,  or  taste,  or  smell  — 
But  of  those  visions  of  the  heart  and  soul 
Whereon  the  mind  of  Man  alone  may  dwell  I 
And  as  one  eye,  from  other  eye  distinct, 
Can  see  but  part  while  other  views  the  whole, 
So  is  it  with  the  impulse  of  the  heart, 
As  with  the  intuition  of  the  soul. 
But  as,  with  varying  strength  of  vision,  we 
Exert,  or  lag,  or  reason,  or  but  guess, 
The  Truth  stands  ever  constant,  strong  and  free, 
For  Truth  is  Truth  —  no  more,  and  never  less ! 
Thus  Truth  is  like  a  rock,  set  in  the  deep, 
Round  which  the  forces  of  our  nature  sweep ; 
At  times  'tis  lost  to  view  midst  mists  of  doubt ; 
Again,  at  other  times,  quite  blotted  out 
By  waves  of  anger,  or  by  sleets  of  fear; 
But,  these  once  passed,  again  it  doth  appear 
[60] 


Erect,  upstanding,  definite  and  clear! 

For  what  is  Truth  but  the  established 

Relation  which  the  facts  of  Nature  bear 

Unto  each  other  and  unto  the  soul  — 

The  individual  intelligence  — 

Of  this  the  creature  that  we  know  as  Man? 

If  that  we  fail  to  glimpse  its  massive  form  — 

Its  great,  majestic  lines,  so  stern  and  bare  — 

We  can  but  charge  our  blindness  to  the  storm 

Of  passing  doubt,  for  Truth  is  ever  there 

Unchanged  and  changeless  in  the  lapse  of  Time  — 

A  wondrous  shape,  majestic,  pure,  sublime; 

A  thing  outliving  present,  future,  past; 

A  form  that  shall  endure  while  Time  shall  last! 


[61] 


PHILOSOPHY 

"  Philosophy  is  the  conclusions  which  men,  in  their  search 
for  a  knowledge  of  truth,  have  drawn  from  the  facts  of  Sci 
ence." —  School  of  Natural  Science. 

FAK  back  within  the  dim  and  distant  past, 

When  consciousness  of  self  did  first  arise, 

The  early  man,  but  little  'bove  the  brute, 

Did  make  weak  efforts  to  philosophize. 

For  Nature's  forces  must  have  so  impressed 

Themselves  upon  his  brain  that  even  then 

He  must  have  sought  the  answer  and  have  tried 

To  bring  her  processes  within  his  ken. 

But  if  the  human  mind,  e'en  in  this  day, 

To  Ignorance  so  firmly  stands  enthralled, 

To  him  what  must  have  seemed  blind  Nature's 

sway 

Which  so  intensely  his  weak  brain  appalled? 
To  him  each  fact  of  Nature  was  a  sign  — 
If  good  at  times,  more  often  still,  malign  — 
Beneath  the  which  he  could  but  cringe  and  cower 
In  this  the  presence  of  some  higher  power 
Which,  though  himself  to  it  he  must  resign, 
He  still  must  needs  with  evil  motives  dower ; 
And  these  same  evil  spirits  must  placate  — 
Their    quenchless    thirst    for    blood    must    ever 

sate  — 

By  sacrificing  that  he  held  most  dear, 
Or  else  live  ever  under  quivering  fear. 
Thus  had  Philosophy  its  early  birth 
Among  the  crude  and  childish  of  the  earth, 

[62] 


And  thus,  e'en  now,  'tis  little  more  sublime 
To  those,  the  thoughtless  of  the  present  time! 
For  many  walk  in  Superstition's  way, 
And  bow  e'en  yet  to  her  malignant  sway, 
And  live  in  doubt  and  dread  for  fear  that  they 
May  fail  at  times  her  mandates  to  obey ! 
And  yet  how  many  would  their  acts  relate 
To  that  obscure,  that  prehistoric  state 
To  which  they  are,  indeed,  so  closely  bound  — 
Which  naught  but  Reason  can  at  all  abate? 
But  in  the  mind  of  Man  so  much  doth  grow 
That  Reason's  growth  is  stunted,  weak  and  slow, 
And  he  but  dull  to  see  that,  freed  from  tares, 
It,  of  them  all,  the  richest  harvest  bears ! 
And  so  the  growth  of  this  Philosophy, 
This  child  of  Reason,  ever  must  keep  pace 
With  this,  the  slow  march  of  humanity  — 
The  ever  constant  progress  of  the  race. 
But  in  all  ages  there  has  ever  been 
The  little  handful  —  they,  the  thinking  men 
Who  have  outstripped  their  fellows  and  have  seen 
That  which  was  not  within  their  neighbors'  ken. 
And  they  the  leaven  are  that  leavens  all  — 
That  break  the  shackles  of  their  brothers'  thrall, 
That  ever  point  the  way  to  Truth  and  Right 
And  show  that  Knowledge  is  the  road  to  Might! 
But  as  Philosophy  is  but,  indeed, 
Conclusions  which  men  draw  —  while  in  the  search 
For  this,  the  knowledge  of  the  very  Truth  — 
From  these,  the  facts  of  Science  and  of  life, 
How  happens  it  that,  in  the  distant  past, 
[63] 


When  Science  was  as  yet  a  thing  unborn, 

So  much  of  Truth  was  caught  and  still  held  fast 

That  later  Science  proves  was  nobly  won? 

Must  not  they,  lacking  Science,  have  been  led 

By  Intuition  to  the  fountain-head 

Of  this,  the  spring  of  Truth,  which  ever  flows  — 

E'en  before  Reason  out  of  darkness  rose? 

But  now,  with  Science  as  our  constant  guide, 

What  cause  remains  in  darkness  to  abide? 

And  with  the  light  by  Intuition  brought, 

Is  not  all  life  with  wondrous  beauty  fraught 

And  pregnant  with  such  possibilities 

As  we  as  yet  can  dimly  but  surmise? 

Thus  if  Philosophy  in  ages  gone, 

While  but  the  child  of  Intuition  born, 

Could  thus  give  birth  to  e'en  one  living  truth, 

What  multitude  of  progeny,  forsooth, 

Should  from  the  loins  of  both  of  them  be  drawn ! 

And  not  in  number  merely,  but  in  strength 

Of  vital  force  and  life,  until  at  length 

The  chains  of  bondage  from  our  limbs  it  rives 

And  gives  a  greater  freedom  to  our  lives ! 

Nor  will  we  e'er  regret  the  thing  that's  gone, 

For  true  Philosophy  will  then  adorn 

Our  lives  —  Philosophy  by  Science  won, 

Of  Reason  and  of  Intuition  born! 


[64] 


RELIGION 

"  Religion  is  the  application  of  the  facts  of  Science  and 
the  conclusions  of  Philosophy  to  individual  life  and  con 
duct." —  School  of  Natural  Science. 

How  strange  this  definition  must  appear 
To  those  who,  trained  in  other  ways  of  thought, 
Have,  in  the  distant  past  rather  than  here, 
The  inner  meaning  of  Religion  sought ! 
For  they  have  e'er  insisted  that  belief 
Must  first  of  all  be  unbelievable, 
And  thereby  must  they  ever  come  to  grief 
In  matters  that  are  controvertible ! 
And  is  not  this  belief  of  theirs  —  if  we 
May  so  describe  a  thing  that  bears  no  part 
Of  true  belief  —  but  blind  attempt  to  see 
And  read  the  hidden  impulse  of  the  heart? 
For  in  the  effort  they  have  borrowed  much 
Of  pagan  ritual  and  pagan  rite, 
And  used  base  superstition  as  a  clutch 
To  grasp,  to  hold,  suppress  and  to  affright. 
And  thus  they  have  purloined  the  Virgin  Birth, 
The  Resurrection ;  and  have  sought  to  cast 
These  outgrown  fallacies  o'er  all  the  earth  — 
These  superstitions  of  a  distant  past! 
And  even  this,  their  Holy  Sacrament  — 
That  Eucharist  of  theirs  that  would  assuage 
The  sins  of  Man  —  what  is  it  but  a  strange 
And  atavistic  relapse  to  an  age 
So  crude  and  brutal,  so  devoid  of  light, 
That  Man  would  deify  and  would  endower 
[65] 


His  fellow  with  divinity  and  might, 

Then  slay  and  eat  —  thus  to  obtain  his  power  ? 

If  but  the  page  of  history  we  scan, 

We  find  that  ever  the  outstanding  man  — 

He  who  would  bring  a  message  to  the  earth  — 

Was  thus  announced  as  of  a  virgin  birth! 

What  strange  perversity  to  thus  insist 

Immaculate  conception  such  as  this 

Can  lend  an  honor  or  a  dignity, 

Or  be  aught  else  than  pure  malignity 

Attacking  thus  Man's  reason  and,  indeed, 

Debasing  him  to  some  crude  pagan  creed! 

But  much  of  savage  lingers  in  him  still, 

Which  shackles  mind  and  thought  and  soul  and 

will, 

And  prompts  him  to  accept  and  to  believe 
That  which  his  reasoning  mind  cannot  conceive! 
Full  many  things,  indeed,  in  heaven  and  earth 
Undreamed  of  are  in  our  philosophy, 
But  should  this  prompt  us  to  permit  the  birth, 
Unchecked,  of  all  perverted  sophistry? 
In  this  enlightened  age  is  not,  indeed, 
This  pagan  worship  an  anachronism  — 
This  blind  adherence  to  dogmatic  creed, 
A  crude  and  stultifying  solecism? 
And  does  not  worship  of  Tradition's  word, 
Which  reasoning  conscience  doth  pronounce  ab 
surd, 

Make  light  of  knowledge,  ignorance  retain, 
And  stamp  its  lasting  impress  on  the  brain? 
Religion  such  as  this  has  served  its  time, 
[66] 


Its  cause  and  purpose  in  the  years  gone  by, 

And  'bove  it  now  the  present  age  would  climb 

And  place  its  visions  and  conceptions  high 

'Bove  such  a  crude,  anthropomorphic  god! 

And  why  should  not  Religion  lead  the  fight  — 

Take  its  true  station  in  the  foremost  van  — 

Not  hamper,  but  inspire  —  enlarge  the  sight, 

And  strike  the  shackles  from  the  soul  of  Man? 

But  old  dogmatic  Creed  is  ever  blind, 

And  so  self-centred  that  it  thinks  to  bind, 

By  antiquated  methods  such  as  these, 

The  living  and  enquiring  human  mind! 

It  cannot  see  that  progress  must  progress ! 

Confessing  others,  it  will  not  confess ! 

Thus  blind  conservatism  is  its  goal  — 

An  end  to  paltry  for  the  living  soul. 

Its   every   action   is    reactionary ; 

Itself  the  arbiter  —  is  arbitrary ; 

And  thus  its  edicts  launches  but  to  find 

No  answering  impulse  in  the  growing  mind ! 

If  from  its  present  stand  'twill  not  diverge, 

Advancing  human  thought  will  soon  submerge, 

O'erwhelm,  engulf  and  utterly  destroy 

Their  grain  of  Truth  mixed  with  so  much  alloy ! 

By  these  is  meant  that  far,  far  greater  force 

That  still  pursues  the  same  unyielding  course 

As  in  the  past,  ere  Man  had  come  to  see 

That  all  was  not  as  they  professed  must  be. 

But  there  are  others,  few  in  number,  who 

Direct  his  eyes  to  a  far  fairer  view; 

Who  would,  to  mind  and  soul,  grant  full  franchise 

[67] 


And  point  the  way  to  truer  paradise. 

They  teach  him  that  Religion  is  no  thing 

Of  creed  and  dogma,  recompense  or  sting, 

For  this  belief  or  that,  or  bid  him  turn 

And  take   to  heart  that  which  his  mind   would 

spurn. 

They  show  him  that  Religion  is,  indeed, 
Naught  but  conclusions  of  Philosophy 
And  application  of  the  facts  of  Science 
To  this,  his  own  and  individual  life; 
The  which  to  do  he  must  accept  the  facts, 
Absorb,  digest,  and  reproduce  in  acts 
Conforming  with  the  purpose  and  the  plan 
Harmonious  Nature  has  laid  down  for  Man. 
Thus  —  and  thus  only  —  can  he  ever  be 
A  true  collaborator  in  the  work 
The  which  to  do  at  last  will  set  him  free, 
But  which  he  can,  if  so  he  wills,  but  shirk ! 
And  to  the  task  Nature  would  have  him  bring 
Each  shred  of  intuition,  reason,  mind, 
And  all  at  once  into  the  balance  fling, 
That  by  this  conscious  effort  he  may  find 
The  inner  secret  to  her  purposes ! 
'Tis  not  by  blinding  eyes  we  strive  to  see ! 
'Tis  not  by  stopping  ears  we  best  can  hear ! 
'Tis  not  by  shutting  mind  we  learn  to  be 
A  being  self-controlled,  devoid  of  fear! 
Nor  is  it  by  renouncing  this,  our  right, 
And  placing  in  some  other  hands  our  hope  — 
Be  he  archbishop,  cardinal,  or  pope  — 
That  these,  our  eyes,  are  opened  to  the  light ! 

[68] 


For  this  is  but  to  prostitute  the  mind, 

And  it  to  other  mind  to  pay  as  fee  — 

An  act  more  base,  ignoble,  I  do  find, 

Than  body  prostitution  e'er  could  be ! 

Each  for  himself  the  riddle  has  to  solve, 

And  each  from  low  to  higher  life  evolve ; 

Thus,  self-controlled  the  mind  must  ever  be, 

The  soul  unquestioned  in  its  sovereignty. 

And  this  should  be  our  ever-constant  goal: 

To  be,  alone,  the  master  of  the  soul, 

The  mind  and  body,  too,  and  subject  all 

To  our  own  individual  control! 

If  this  we  do  and  do  apply  the  facts 

Of  Science  and  of  true  Philosophy 

To  this,  our  conduct  and  our  daily  lives, 

We  need  not  question  if  the  patient  thrives; 

For  thought,  indeed,  begets  but  higher  thought 

And    light    will    come    to    those    who    light    have 

sought  — 

Transforming  darkness  into  brightest  day  — 
If  they  but  seek  it  in  the  proper  way ! 
And  will  not  then  Religion  come  to  be 
The  guide  that  first  the  mind  and  soul  would  free, 
Then  points  to  Man  the  proper  course  that  he, 
Commencing  here,  keeps  through  Eternity? 


[69] 


THOUGHT 

How  marvelous  and  grand,  the  power  of  Thought ! 
With  what  tremendous  attributes  'tis  fraught! 
How  great  the  possibilities  that  lie 
There  hidden,  if  but  diligently  sought! 

'Tis  like  an  unexplored  and  hidden  mine, 
Whose  limitations  no  one  can  define, 
That  yields  rich  ore  to  all  who  dig,  and  which, 
In  being  worked,  doth  but  itself  refine! 

For  Thought  develops  Thought,  and  in  this  wise, 
Low  Thought  to  higher  Thought  must  ever  rise, 
With  nothing  that  can  check  its  growth,  indeed, 
Beneath  the  vast,  illimitable  skies! 

This,  then,  the  prospect  for  the  man  who  works 
This  property  of  his !     But  he  who  shirks 
The  labor  may  at  last  but  come  to  find 
A  latent  evil  force  that  therein  lurks ! 

For  he  who  works  not,  does  the  trust  betray, 
And    Thought    untrained    is    Thought    but    led 

astray ; 

And  what  doth  not  advance,  cannot  stand  still, 
But  sinks  to  desolation  and  decay ! 

'Twould  seem  that  Nature  hath  provided  so 
That  back  or  forward  everything  must  go  — 
That  Mutability,  alone  unchanged, 
Must,  like  a  pendulum,  swing  to  and  fro! 

[70] 


'Tis  ever  thus  in  Nature  and  in  Man ! 
Progress  or  retrogression  is  the  ban 
That  Nature  places  'pon  all  things  that  live  — 
This  her  eternal,  unexcepting  plan. 

For  thus,  and  only  thus  indeed,  she  may 
Impress  upon  our  intellects  her  sway, 
And  thus  through  evolution  indicate 
To  our  weak  senses  this,  her  only  way ! 

And  so  we  sense  the  law  of  proper  use  — 
Dimly,  'tis  true,  for  still  our  grasp  is  loose 
'Pon  this  conception ;  and  we  still  must  play 
With  that,  our  own  —  the  man-made  law,  abuse ! 

For  all  she  gives  us,  we  must  rightly  use, 
Though  having  power,  indeed,  but  to  abuse ; 
The  choice  is  ours,  and  Nature  leaves  us  free  — 
Submits    them    both,    and    then    would    have    us 
choose. 

Thus  Thought  is  subject  to  development  — 
Or  retrogression,  if  that  be  our  bent ; 
And  both  the  goals  are  plain  and  clear  to  see  — 
Content,  the  one;  the  other,  discontent! 

But  if  development  be  this,  our  aim  — 

By  which  is  meant  not  wealth,  nor  power,  nor 

fame, 

But  true  development  of  mind  and  thought  — 
How  strangely  fascinating  is  the  game! 

[71] 


For  Thought  is  pregnant  with  a  mighty  force, 
And  unimpeded  doth  pursue  its  course, 
Nor  lags,  nor  wavers,  for  it  draws  supply 
From  the  exhaustless,  fundamental  source! 

What  other  power  compares  with  this  alone? 
If  owned,  should  we  not  other  loss  condone? 
For,  with  all  else,  if  this  we  lack,  what  can 
For  this,  the  greatest  loss  of  all,  atone? 

Thus  Thought,  and  Thought  alone,  conditions  life, 
Produces  harmony;  engenders  strife; 
Gives  weight  and  substance  to  all  things  that  be  — 
Both  good  and  bad,  exceptional  or  rife! 

And  Thought,  when  clothed  in  words,  when  winged 

with  speech, 

Encircles  Space,  and  out  of  Time  doth  reach 
From  distant  past  to  ages  yet  unborn, 
The  never-dying  word  of  Thought  to  teach ! 

For  Thought  is  ever  new  —  untouched  by  rust  — 
And  still  within  our  consciousness  would  thrust 
Some  gem  of  Thought  conceived  in  a  brain 
For  many  centuries  returned  to  dust! 

Thus  Thought  lives  on,  e'en  when  the  mother  womb 
That  gave  it  birth  has  vanished  in  the  tomb! 
Perpetual  life  that  never  fades  or  dies ! 
Unfailing  flower  of  true  perennial  bloom! 

[72] 


How  great  a  blessing  if  we  would  but  lay 
These  flowers  of  Thought  within  our  minds  today, 
Would  sow  the  seeds  and  cultivate  them  well, 
And  reap  at  last  the  harvest  that  we  may ! 


[73] 


LIFE'S  JOURNEY 

LIFE  seems  to  me  but  as  a  journey  made 

From  the  rose-tinted,  eastern  peak  of  Birth, 

Down  through  the  valley  lying  in  between, 

And  up  the  farther,  rocky,  western  slope 

To  that,  the  dreary,  darkling  crest  of  Death ! 

A  journey  which,  begun  in  morning  glow 

And  fanned  by  early  zephyrs  light  and  sweet, 

Becomes  at  length,  in  torrid  pain  below, 

A  battle  with  the  cruel  and  stifling  heat, 

At  last  becoming  —  on  the  farther  slope, 

When  evening  shadows  have  begun  to  fall  — 

A  dim  and  misty  path  whereon  to  grope 

And  fight  for  strength  'gainst  visions  that  appal 

The  mind  and  heart  devoid  of  faith  and  hope, 

The  which,  if  lost,  we  rarely  can  recall. 

Through  infancy  and  childhood's  happy  years, 
Through   childish  joys   and   sorrows,  hopes   and 

fears  — 

Those  passing  clouds  upon  a  summer  sky 
That  only  wash  it  brighter  with  their  tears  — 
Awhile  doth  childhood  dawdle  on  the  crest, 
Bathed  in  the  first  soft  light  of  early  dawn ; 
Viewing  alone  the  present  with  full  zest 
And  heedless  of  those  voices  that  would  warn ; 
Assuming  life  a  merriment  and  jest, 
And  those  who  caution  but  as  strange,  depressed 
Weaklings  from  whom  all  strength  of  life  is  gone ; 
Until,  grown  strong  at  last,  its  eyes  are  drawn 

[7*] 


To  those  far  peaks,  now  bathed  in  glowing  morn, 
When  eagerly  it  enters  on  its  quest. 
Heedless  and  merry  doth  the  trip  begin ; 
And  life  seems  like  some  rich  and  boundless  store 
With  naught  to  lose  but  everything  to  win, 
And  winning  e'er  increasing  more  and  more. 
Thus  with  a  deprecating  air,  disdainful  toss, 
Impatiently  he  hears,  indeed,  that  loss 
Perchance  may  meet  him  on  the  way  ahead  — 
Loss,  pain,  despondency,  despair  and  dread ! 

At  first  the  slope  is  easy,  free  from  care  — 

Sun-kissed  the  vision,  tonic-like  the  air, 

And   flowering  shrubs   and  vines  but   lend  their 

touch 

To  make  still  fairer  life  that  is  so  fair. 
Gay  butterflies  swing  lightly  to  the  breeze, 
Charming  the  eye  and  tempting  hand  to  seize 
And  foot  to  stray  from  out  the  forward  path, 
If  only  pent  up  spirit  to  release. 
And  'pon  each  bough,  with  all  their  might  and 

main, 

Full-throated  songsters  warble  their  refrain, 
Each  note  of  which  inspires  but  joy  and  hope 
Of  all  that  waits  him  on  the  farther  slope. 
He  finds  new  fruits,  before  unknown,  to  taste ; 
New  feelings,  new  sensations,  yet  untried, 
O'er  which  he  often  pressing  time  doth  waste 
Without  a  thought  of  what  they  may  betide, 
For  youth  must  learn  from  sad  experience, 
Without  the  which  it  never  can  be  sure, 
[75] 


And  this  must  be  its  final  recompense 
For  all  that  it  has  cost  it  to  secure. 

And  now  he  is  convinced  that  he  who  warned 
Was  but  some  spectre  shape  at  this,  life's  spread  — 
A  being  to  be  pitied  more  than  scorned, 
Some  crude  and  croaking  phantom  of  the  dead, 
Some  human  wreckage  cast  upon  the  shore 
Of  this,  life's  joyous,  full  and  flowing  tide, 
One  who,  perchance,  had  lived,  but  lived  no  more 
And  who,  though  breathing,  otherwise  had  died! 
And  so  adown  the  eastern  slope  he  goes, 
With  eyes  strained  forward  to  that  later  strife 
In  which  he  sees  but  conquest  —  never  woes  — 
Conquest  of  all  attainable  in  life. 
Courage  pervades  his  heart  and  hope  his  eye; 
His  strength  with  other  strength  he  longs  to  try ; 
And  thus  inspired,  beneath  the  morning  sun 
He  dreams  alone  of  glories  to  be  won. 
And  life,  to  him,  is  but  a  pleasing  game  — 
The  road  to  full  attainment,  wealth  and  fame; 
And  all  its  paths  are  but  for  him  to  choose, 
For  of  them  all  the  end  would  seem  the  same  — 
The  same,  at  least,  to  those  of  spirit,  force; 
To  those  who  recognize,  like  him,  the  course, 
And  for  all  others  he  has  but  disdain, 
The  which  to  show  he  hardly  can  refrain. 
Thus  gaily  he  traverses  this,  the  first, 
Stage  of  his  journey,  with  no  thought  or  dread 
Of  weariness,  of  hunger,  or  of  thirst 
That  may  await  him  on  the  path  ahead. 
[76] 


But  soon  the  downward  slope  is  left  behind 

And  the  rough  valley  stretches  at  his  feet, 

And  then  alone  there  flashes  through  his  mind 

The  thought  of  coming  hardships  he  must  meet. 

But  courage  fails  him  not  and  he  is  strong  — 

Weak  in  experience,  but  strong  in  hope, 

The  which  sustains  him  though  the  way  seem  long 

And  unknown  dangers  'fore  his  vision  ope'. 

But  now  rough  boulders  rise  within  his  path, 

And  turbid  currents  interrupt  the  way, 

And  tangling  vines  his  footsteps  oft  impede, 

Or  treacherous  morass  his  feet  betray. 

The  scorching  sunlight  now  doth  blind  his  eyes, 

Beating  'pon  unprotected  head  and  brow, 

While  ever  in  his  path  new  objects  rise, 

Which  strive  to  interfere,  deter,  or  cow. 

New  difficulties  to  be  overcome, 

New  problems  he  must  wrestle  with  and  solve, 

An  ever-growing  load  —  a  lengthening  sum 

Demanding  all  his  strength  and  firm  resolve. 

But  now  experience  comes  to  his  aid 

And  teaches  how  he  may  at  times  evade, 

Escape,  or  pass  some  pitfalls  into  which 

His  former  lack  of  it  had  made  him  pitch. 

But  some,  while  gaining  this  experience 

For  which  they  needs  must  ever  blindly  grope, 

Cast  quite  aside,  or  utterly  forget, 

Their  former  compass  —  that  of  faith  and  hope. 

But  he  is  wise  who  doth  retain  it  still, 

And  often  at  its  fountain  drink  his  fill, 

For  it  provides  a  cordial  the  which 

[77] 


Experience  alone  cannot  distil. 

Experience  may  save  him  many  a  fall, 

Many  a  needless  suffering  and  pain, 

But  faith  and  hope  provide  the  wherewithal 

To  transmute  seeming  loss  into  a  gain; 

And  it  alone  provides  that  inner  strength 

That  gladdens  heart  and  lights  despondent  eyes 

And  gives  conviction  to  the  soul  at  length 

That  good  from  evil  will  at  last  arise ! 

But  those  who  in  their  haste  have  thrown  away 

This  guiding  compass  which  to  youth  is  given, 

Find  little  solace  in  the  burning  day 

And  learn  that  much  of  strength  from  life  is  riven. 

For  mere  experience,  while  of  great  need, 

Has  limitations,  and  at  times,  indeed, 

But  hardens  and  destroys  that  inner  sight 

The  which  enables  us  to  see  the  light ! 

Thus  through  the  valley  he  pursues  his  way, 

His  eyes  firm-set  upon  the  farther  slope, 

While  many  faint  and  fall,  digress  or  stray, 

Without  the  guiding  light  of  faith  and  hope. 

At  last  the  valley's  crossed,  and  here,  at  length, 
In  the  cool  shadows  of  the  lengthening  day, 
He  pauses  to  renew  his  failing  strength 
Ere  turning  once  again  unto  the  way. 
After  the  scorching  sunlight  of  the  plain, 
The  rocky  path,  the  treacherous  morass, 
The  cooling  shadow  tempts  him  and  he  fain 
Would  now  postpone  the  passage  of  the  pass 
That  frowns  above  with  many  a  beetling  crag, 
[78]   ' 


Suggesting  dangers  that  his  thoughts  harass. 
But  on  this  journey  none  may  ever  lag, 
And  though  he  fain  would  rest,  he  still  must  drag 
His  aching  limbs  and  summon  all  his  will 
To  tread  the  path  stretching  before  him  still. 
And  here,  within  the  afternoon  of  life, 
E'en  more  than  in  the  burning  heat  of  day 
When  mind  and  heart  were  occupied  with  strife, 
He'll  need  his  compass  lest  he  lose  his  way; 
For  if  his  ideals  have  been  left  behind, 
Or  lost,  or  shattered  in  the  noon-day  strain, 
What  guide  remains  for  this,  his  active  mind  — 
What  answers  to  the  questions  of  his  brain? 
Experience  but  whispers  of  the  past, 
Of  all  that's  gone  before  it  is  the  sum; 
But  what  strong  guiding  light  can  it  now  cast 
Upon  those  other  dangers  yet  to  come? 
For  at  this  stage,  intuitively,  he 
Begins  —  if  dimly,  still,  indeed  —  to  see 
That  out  ahead  the  way  is  not  the  same 
As  that  familiar  one  by  which  he  came ; 
And  though  the  latter  was  both  rough  and  rude, 
The  present  effort  all  his  fancies  wooed 
And  tempted  him  to  banish  from  his  mind 
Those   other   thoughts   that  would   at   times   ob 
trude. 

But  now  they  can  no  longer  be  escaped 
Here  in  the  gathering  dusk  of  early  eve, 
And  he  must  meet  them  as  his  mind  is  shaped 
To  weigh,  to  measure,  reject,  or  receive. 
With  what  equipment  he  has  forged  within  — 
[79] 


Be  it  of  simple  fool,  or  learned  sage  — 

He  now  must  gird  himself  and  must  begin 

Of  this,  his  trip,  the  last  and  final  stage. 

And  lucky  he  with  ideals  unimpaired; 

With  soul  responsive;  spirit  firm  and  strong; 

With  mental  vision  clear,  and  mind  prepared 

To  see,  to  gauge,  to  measure  right  and  wrong! 

For  now  the  way  is  tortuous  and  steep, 

And  evening  shadows  stealthily  do  creep 

Upon  his  path  and  make  dim  and  obscure 

That  which  at  first  had  seemed  so  plain  and  sure. 

And  evening  mists  rise  in  the  hollow  spots, 

Converting  but  to  nebulous  grey  blots 

Secluded  dells  which  early  morning  light 

Had  made  to  seem  so  wondrous  fair  and  bright. 

And  often  sheets  of  cold  and  driving  rain  — 

Now  dreary  drizzle,  now  torrential  flood  — 

But  add  their  part  to  his  increasing  pain, 

And  chill  still  faster  his  fast  chilling  blood. 

And  now  he  stumbles  where  before  he  leapt ; 

The  way,  once  bounded,  must  at  last  be  crept 

Painfully  slow,  to  husband  failing  strength, 

If  he  would  measure  the  full  journey's  length. 

And  as  he  creeps,  the  ever-growing  chill 

Clutches  his  heart  and  stifles  mind  and  will, 

And  the  exultant  harmony  of  morn 

Seems,  in  life's  evening,  desolate  and  still. 

Thus  plods  the  man  of  faith  and  hope  bereft  — 
He  whose  ideals,  shattered  in  the  fight, 
Finds  at  the  last  that  he,  indeed,  has  left 
[80] 


His  consolation  'gainst  the  coming  night! 
For  here  experience  hath  naught  to  say 
Save  of  his  journey  in  the  vanished  day 
That's  past  and  gone,  and  has  no  word  of  cheer 
To  help  dispel  that  chilling  breath  of  fear 
Of  which  he  has  become  the  living  prey 
Now  that  the  crest  of  Death  appears  so  near. 
But  he,  the  man  whose  faith  and  hope  are  strong, 
Ne'er  wavers  now,  but  rather  with  a  song 
Upon  his  lips  the  journey's  end  doth  greet, 
Nor  would,  indeed,  continuance  prolong. 
For  with  the  eye  of  faith  he  plainly  sees 
That  which  the  other  does  by  slow  degrees, 
And  intuition  clearly  points  the  way 
To  a  continuous  and  brighter  day  — 
A  day  which,  starting  at  the  crest  of  Death  — 
From  present  life  divided  by  a  breath  — 
Continues  what  was  here  but  just  begun, 
Granting  to  each  the  recompenses  won. 
His  place  therein,  what  he,  himself,  has  made; 
The  purchase  price  whereof  himself  has  paid 
In  thought  and  act,  while  on  the  journey  here, 
When  he,  unthinking,  the  foundations  laid. 
And  if  the  place  be  high,  or  be  it  low, 
There  to  his  own  place  he  of  needs  must  go 
And  reap  the  harvest  to  be  gathered  there, 
The  seed  whereof  in  this  life  he  did  sow ; 
For  Nature  is  unswerving,  true  and  just  — 
Undeviating  and  alike  to  all  — 
E'en  as  the  force  of  gravitation  must 
The  up-thrown  stone  reverse  unto  a  fall. 
[81] 


No  matter  what  his  thought  or  best  belief! 
If  true,  'tis  well !     If  not,  'twill  come  to  grief 
When  at  the  last  the  inner  truth  stands  forth 
And  that  WHICH  is  appears  in  bold  relief! 
If  in  his  act  or  thought  he's  led  astray 
By  those  professing  here  to  know  the  way, 
He  need  not  these,  his  fellows,  then  abuse 
Because  he  failed  his  intellect  to  use ; 
For  each  is  in  himself  endowed  with  mind  — 
That  wondrous  thing  with  latent  vigor  fraught  — 
Wherewith  to  search,  and  Nature's  secrets  find. 
The  which  he  may,  if  diligently  sought. 
Nor  need  he  look  for  help,  indeed,  to  those 
Who  sought  while  here  his  actions  to  revise, 
For  self-appointed  stewardship  shall  close 
When  death  shall  close  those  same  judicial  eyes. 
Then  will  he  see  the  journey  here  has  been 
But  Nature's  method  —  Nature's  single  way  — 
Of  granting  him  permission  thus  to  sin, 
Demanding  in  return  that  he  must  pay. 
And  sin  —  no  thing  of  fixed  and  standard  rule ; 
No    precept    taught    in    court-house,    church    or 

school ; 

A  thing  to  master,  like  a  lengthy  sum 
By  memory  —  the  gift  of  sage  and  fool ! 
For  sin,  indeed,  quite  otherwise  would  seem  — 
A  thing  more  weighty,  pregnant  with  a  cause  — 
And  comes  at  last  to  be  all  that  we  deem 
A  contravention  of  true  Nature's  laws ! 
And  thus  the  mind  must  ever  judge  and  weigh  — 
Must  hold  or  loose,  accelerate  or  stay  — 

[82] 


Both  thought  and  act,  comparing  each  and  all 
With  what  we  deem  to  be  true  Nature's  way. 
And  here  our  reasoning  conscience  is  our  guide  — 
That  spirit  shape  untrammelled,  full  and  free, 
Which,  if  consulted,  helps  us  to  decide 
Truly  between  what  should,  and  should  not,  be. 
Thus  ever  is  the  choice  'twixt  good  and  ill; 
And     we  —  free     agents  —  have     the     power     to 

choose ; 

But  obligation  also,  if  we  lose, 
To  meet  the  score  with  prompt  and  ready  will. 
And  grudging  penury  at  this,  the  debt, 
Will  not  one  whit  the  reckoning  offset, 
But  rather  add  an  interest  charge  which  we 
At  time  of  settlement  may  well  regret! 
Thus  is  life's  journey  but  a  training  school. 
In  which  the  rudiments  of  life  are  taught, 
And  where,  if  dimly,  we  perceive  the  rule 
With  which,  indeed,  all  future  life  is  fraught ! 
And  if  we're  indolent  and  slow  to  learn  — 
In  petty  pride,  refuse  what's  in  our  reach  — 
Pain  comes  to  warn  us  that  we  must  not  spurn 
The  lessons  Nature  is  prepared  to  teach. 
How,  other,  could  we  learn  than  in  this  way, 
Within  the  compass  of  a  fleeting  day? 
How,  otherwise,  is  character  derived 
If  not  by  something,  seemingly  deprived, 
That  moves  to  thought  and  action,  lacking  which, 
Means  to  the  end  had  never  been  contrived? 
Would    any    strive    for    that    which    they    ne'er 

need? 

[83] 


Why  sow  at  all  but  for  the  harvest  seed 
That  doth  repay  the  effort  o'er  and  o'er  — 
No  matter  what  the  field,  or  who  the  sower? 
Thus,  constantly  doth  Nature  spur  us  on 
By  holding  'fore  us  prizes  to  be  won ; 
And  thus  doth  Nature  cause  us  to  refrain 
By  the  infliction  of  the  thing  called  Pain ! 

These  are  the  lessons  which  our  faith  and  hope 
In  all  their  marvelous,  far-reaching  scope  — 
Bring  to  our  senses  if  we  are  prepared 
With  ears  to  hear  and  eyes,  indeed,  to  ope. 
And  this  the  vital  truth  the  traveler  sees 
While  toiling  up  the  drear  and  rugged  slope ; 
And,  seeing  this,  he  knows  his  present  pain 
Is  but  disguised  benefit  and  gain 
If  understood,  as  useless  ore,  when  mined, 
Becomes  of  use  when  properly  refined. 
As  every  product  of  the  teeming  earth 
Can  be  converted  to  a  thing  of  worth, 
So  all  his  ills,  destructive  though  they  be, 
Can  be,  indeed,  applied  constructively. 
And  thus  misfortune  can  be  made  a  boon  — 
A  store  of  riches,  growing  more  and  more, 
And  coming  to  fulfillment,  late  or  soon, 
If  we  from  out  the  husk  extract  the  core. 
Thus  seeing,  with  a  song  within  his  heart, 
The  man  of  faith  and  hope  pursues  his  way, 
Undauntedly  performing  this,  his  part, 
In  full  conviction  of  the  coming  day! 
This  is  his  faith  that  nothing  can  dispel! 

[84] 


This  is  his  courage  that  no  force  can  quell! 
No  recompense  of  heaven,  nor  threat  of  hell, 
But  what  his  reasoning  conscience  doth  compel 
Saying  at  last :  "  'Tis  done,  and  it  is  well ! " 


[85] 


THE  MIND  OF  CHILDHOOD 

THE  mind  of  childhood,  like  a  budding  flower, 
Unfolds  its  form  of  beauty  hour  by  hour, 
And  daily  doth  expand,  increase  and  grow 
As  added  knowledge  doth  with  graces  dower! 
At  first,  while  in  the  bud  shut  close  and  still, 
But  few  impressions  make  its  senses  thrill 
And  it  lies  dormant  in  the  morn  of  life, 
Heedless,  unthinking,  gaining  strength,  until 
It  blossoms  forth,  at  last,  in  thought  and  will ! 
And  then  its  appetite  is  strong  and  keen  — 
Sharp  and  enquiring  as  a  cutting  knife  — 
And  straightway  it  begins  to  reap  and  glean 
All  grain  of  knowledge  in  the  field  of  life. 
Wheat   grains   of   truth  —  life-giving,   pure   and 

strong  — 

But  also  weeds  of  untruth,  tares  of  wrong, 
And  briars  and  thistles  of  perverted  thought 
Seem  to  it,  all  alike,  with  value  fraught! 
Full  often  are  these  weeds  and  tares  possessed 
Of  greater  charm,  in  fuller  beauty  dressed, 
Alluring  to  the  eyes  that  on  them  dwell, 
More  fascinating  to  the  taste  and  smell ! 
Seductive  vices,  gayest  colors  show; 
Perverted  thought  in  beauteous  form  doth  blow; 
Revealing  not  their  poisonous  quality, 
Unreasoning  superstitions  often  grow! 
Midst  such  a  crop,  how  can  childhood  decide 
Without  a  wise  and  understanding  guide 
To  show,  to  reason  —  never  to  command ; 

[86] 


A  leading,  guiding  —  not  a  driving  —  hand? 
A  hand  that  clearly,  calmly,  points  the  way, 
Lest  trusting  childhood  should  itself  betray, 
And,  by  the  reaping  of  the  tares  and  weeds, 
For  later  fatal  harvest  glean  the  seeds! 
And  sympathetic,  understanding,  wise 
Must  be  the  mind  that  childhood  would  apprize 
Of  all  these  things,  and  would  attempt  to  guide 
Its  ready  brain  and  wide,  enquiring  eyes ! 
For  childhood's  mind  is  as  a  spotless  page, 
Untouched,  unsullied  by  the  hand  of  age, 
Unwarped  by  strain,  unprejudiced  by  strife  — 
Childhood's,  as  yet,  unspotted  page  of  life ! 
As  black  shows  blackest  'gainst  the  driven  snow, 
So  'pon  this  page  all  stains  will  darkest  show; 
Or  as  a  seed,  planted  in  virgin  soil, 
To  fuller,  ripe  luxuriance  will  grow! 
So  with  the  mind  of  childhood  each  impress, 
At  first  so  strong,  grows  ever  less  and  less 
And  faint  and  fainter  with  the  passing  years, 
As  mind  grows  callous  with  its  doubts  and  fears. 
Therefore  upon  this  spotless  page  of  youth, 
Which  takes  impressions  as  'twill  later  not, 
Should  not  we  strive  but  to  impress  the  truth, 
Nor  mar  its  tender  surface  with  a  blot? 
No  blot  of  Superstition,  rank  and  rude  — 
The  bastard  offspring  of  perverted  Thought  — 
Should  be  permitted  'pon  it  to  obtrude, 
And  leave  its  stain  upon  its  surface  wrought. 
How  oft,  in  thoughtless  folly,  do  we  cast 
Some  outgrown  superstition  of  the  past 

[87] 


Ton  childhood's  trusting  mind,  creating  there 
A  crude  encumbrance  —  useless  first  and  last ! 
How  often  do  we  generate  a  fear 
Which  leaves  its  imprint,  desolate  and  drear, 
And,  grown  to  strength  from  this  initial  seed, 
In  after  life  conditions  thought  and  deed! 
For,  with  imagination  full  and  free, 
Emotion  warm,  pulsating  —  neither  led 
By  reason,  cold  and  clear  —  how  can  it  see 
That  here,  indeed,  is  little  cause  for  dread? 
For  superstition,  crude,  perverted,  blind, 
Finds  scanty  lodgment  in  the  virile  mind 
That's  grown  to  full  maturity  and  strength 
Unless  in  youth  it  be  allowed  to  bind. 
And  blind,  unthinking  fear  —  indeed  the  worsi 
Of  all  the  ills  with  which  this  life  is  cursed  — 
Is  easy  to  implant  in  childish  thought 
If  by  —  what  seems  to  it  —  true  wisdom  taught ! 
For  fear  is  but  alone  a  thing  of  use 
To  point  the  consequences  of  abuse 
Of  Nature's  laws,  and  should  be  made  to  be 
A  tool  with  which  to  work  constructively. 
And  fear  that  has  no  cause  'gainst  which  to  guard 
Can  never  strengthen,  but  must  e'er  retard 
The  growth  of  mind  and  reason,  bringing  pain 
That's  loss  complete,  without  a  shred  of  gain. 
And  childhood  has,  at  best,  enough  to  fear; 
Enough  to  learn ;  enough  to  understand ; 
Without  impressing  'pon  it  such  a  drear 
And  nameless  terror  of  a  hidden  hand. 
For  living  is  replete  enough  with  strife, 
[88] 


And  with  full  many  things  which  we  must  dread, 

Without  implanting  thus  within  our  life 

Some  out-lived  superstition  of  the  dead! 

And  we  can  ne'er  be  greater  than  we  think! 

And  if  our  aim  be  thought  serene  and  high, 

We  miss  the  mark  —  to  lower  level  sink  — 

If  under  Superstition's  hand  we  lie. 

'Tis  bad  enough  to  so  misuse  our  own  — 

For  which,  no  doubt,  we  shall  in  full  atone  — 

But  criminal  indeed  if  thus  we  bind 

With  such  a  load,  the  trusting  childish  mind ! 

How  little  wisdom  hath  maturity 

That  thus  would  bind  where  it  should  strive  to 

free ! 

How  strange  an  office  for  the  loving  heart, 
Not  help,  but  actual  hindrance,  to  impart ; 
To  foster  weakness  —  not  to  further  strength  — 
In   one  beloved,  which  will  indeed,  at  length, 
By  dulling  reason,  clouding  mind  and  brain, 
Make  him  less  fit  to  stand  life's  heavy  strain! 
The  opening  bud  of  childhood  we  should  nurse 
With  greater  wisdom,  greater  thought  and  care, 
And  not  attempt  to  blight  it  with  a  curse, 
If  we  expect  the  blossom  to  be  fair! 
If  but  these  cankering  evils  we  remove, 
The  full-blown  bloom  itself  will  surely  prove 
That  this,  our  tending,  has  been  wise  and  just  — 
That  we,  indeed,  have  not  betrayed  the  trust! 


[89] 


OLD  AGE 

SHOULD  not  Old  Age  reap  from  its  crop  of  years 
A  ceaseless  solace,  pure  perennial  balm, 
A  mind  devoid  alike  of  doubts  and  fears, 
A  spirit  high,  a  soul  serene  and  calm? 

Should  not  a  fuller  knowledge  of  the  way 

Of  life  and  thought  make  life  itself  more  clear, 

And  to  the  mind  —  as  to  the  heart  —  convey 

A  message  fraught  with  comfort,  hope  and  cheer? 

Youth's  passions  o'er,  its  paroxysms  past  — 
Its  mountain  torrent,  vigorous  and  free, 
Flows  deeper  far  (if  not,  indeed,  so  fast) 
A-down  the  level  reaches  to  the  sea. 

And  if  the  final  stretch  be  cold  and  bleak, 
Should  this,  in  truth,  be  charged  to  age  alone, 
Or  to  ourselves,  thus  prompting  us  to  seek 
The  cause  thereof,  for  which  we  but  atone? 

The  tree  in  which  the  heart  and  soul  have  died 
While  clothed  in  bloom,  turns  hard  and  cold  and 

grey, 
With    rigid    branches,    leaves    close-curled    and 

dried  — 
A  spot  of  desolation  by  the  way. 

But  it  which  still  the  sap  of  life  contains 
Sinks  ever  gently  to  autumnal  rest, 

[90] 


And  as  a  living  beauty  spot  remains 
A  dash  of  color  upon  Nature's  breast. 

The  wealth  of  varied  shade  and  depth  of  tone 
Vie  with  the  rainbow  arching  overhead, 
And  by  their  beauty  indicate  alone 
The  fact  that  summer  days  are  past  and  dead. 

Why  not  the  same  in  our  autumnal  days, 
When  failing  strength  and  life's  less  ardent  flow 
Should  purge  the  dross,  and  from  within  us  raise 
A  purer  beauty  —  more  celestial  glow  ? 

How  differs  the  perspective  of  the  past, 
Viewed  from  the  stand-point  of  our  later  years! 
How  vain  the  stake  for  which  the  die  oft  cast  — 
The  misdirected  efforts  —  useless  tears ! 

And  as  our  eyes  a-down  the  years  we  strain, 
How  much  we  grasp  which  formerly  we  spurned  — 
See  past  misfortune  turned  to  present  gain  — 
Some  lesson  mastered,  otherwise  unlearned! 

Is  it,  indeed,  not  Mother  Nature's  plan 
To  grant  a  halting  place  upon  the  way, 
That  from  its  vantage  we  may  closely  scan 
The  thought  and  impulse  of  our  early  day? 

For  thus  the  picture-puzzle  we  call  Life 
Takes  shape  and  form,  a-while  we  idly  dream, 
And  from  afar,  unhampered  by  the  strife, 
We  dimly  sense  the  purpose  of  the  scheme. 

[91] 


And,  sensing  this,  we  glimpse  the  heart  and  soul 
Of  life  itself,  and  with  redoubled  zest 
Direct  our  efforts  to  the  distant  goal  — 
The  Golden  Fleece  —  the  universal  quest. 

Thus  should  Old  Age,  with  doubts  and  fears  sub 
dued, 

Search  the  untrodden,  as  the  trodden,  way, 
And,  with  true  courage,  faith  and  hope  imbued, 
Reflect  the  coming  of  a  fairer  day. 


[92] 


NATURE  AFTER  RAIN 

DID'ST  ever  sit  with  Nature,  after  rain, 
At  sunset,  in  the  springtime  of  the  year, 
And  list  to  her  harmonious  refrain  — 
That  voiceless  voice,  so  subtle  yet  so  clear? 

That    voice    which    speaks    in    every    weed    and 

flower  — 

In  every  leaf,  in  every  blade  of  grass ; 
That  wondrous  anthem  so  replete  with  power; 
That  hushed,  but  yet  reverberating,  mass ! 

Upon  each  bough  the  feathered  songsters  preen 
And  voice  their  joy  anew,  but  even  they 
Serve  but  to  swell  that  other  voice  unseen 
That  takes  the  major  part  in  Nature's  lay. 

That  strange,  impressive  harmony  of  earth  — 
That  voice  so  low  and  yet,  indeed,  so  loud  — 
Insistently  proclaiming  life  and  birth, 
Changing  to  swaddling  clothes  the  funeral  shroud. 

Each  grass  blade  clasps  a  diamond  to  its  breast ; 
Each  laden  bush  a  bounteous  largess  throws; 
Upon  each  pendant  leaf,  in  strange  unrest, 
A  living  jewel  scintillates  and  glows ! 

Earth,  having  drunk  a-full  the  living  stream, 

Refreshed  and  thankful,  renovated,  fair  — 

Her    moistened    lips    and    thirst-quenched    voice 

would  seem 
To  ope'  and  raise  in  mute  and  silent  prayer. 

[93] 


And  all  her  teeming  lives  but  add  their  part 
To  swell  the  chorus  of  the  joyful  strain, 
And,  voiced  or  voiceless,  speak  from  out  the  heart 
In  this  triumphal  paean  to  the  rain ! 

These  myriad  voices  of  the  sentient  earth 
That  speak  alone  of  living  and  rebirth; 
Of  life,  though  seeming  lost,  to  be  rewon, 
E'en  though,  to  our  weak  senses,  past  and  done ! 

Can  any  list'  to  Nature's  song  at  eve 
And  still  continue  but  to  dread  and  grieve? 
Can  any  hear  and  yet  with  bated  breath, 
Mutter  his  doubts  and  fears  of  coming  death? 

Can  any  fail  to  see  that  in  the  end  — 
Through  all  its  changes,  all  its  seeming  strife  — 
Life  is  the  goal  toward  which  all  things  but  tend  — 
That  Death  must,  at  the  last,  give  place  to  Life? 


[9*1 


A  REFLECTION 

DOST  ever  walk  the  busy  city  streets 
And  contemplate  that  flowing  human  tide  — 
That  endless  stream  that  endlessly  doth  glide, 
And  which,  where'er  we  turn,  the  vision  greets? 

How  oft  in  rapt  attention  do  I  gaze 
Into  the  faces  that  but  hurry  by, 
Each  'pon  a  mission  of  its  own,  and  try 
To    read    their    thoughts,    their   purposes,    their 
ways ! 

Active  and  light;  deliberate  and  slow; 
Cheerful  and  gay;  disconsolate  and  sad; 
Depressed,  subdued,  exuberant  and  glad  — 
Appear  in  this  kaleidoscopic  show! 

Some  bent  and  broken  by  a  lengthy  strife ; 
Some  but  inspired  by  all  it  holds  in  store  — 
The  cup  but  sipped,  clamor  for  more  and  more 
Of  this  intoxicating  drink  of  life ! 

The  cup  of  life  that  every  one  must  drink  — 
So  sweet  to  some;  to  others  naught  but  gall, 
A  nauseous  dose,  a  bondage  and  a  thrall 
Beneath  the  which  their  failing  strength  doth  sink. 

And  yet  to  all  —  where'er  their  lot  be  cast  — 
Is  not,  indeed,  the  final  goal  the  same? 
Is  not  the  stake  in  this,  life's  mighty  game, 
But  that  of  happiness,  from  first  to  last? 
[95] 


But  yet,  how  differently  conceived  by  each! 
How  varied  are  the  shades  it  seems  to  wear! 
How  many  are  the  trials  we  must  bear 
Ere  we  perceive  what  Nature  has  to  teach! 

How  oft  our  valuations  prove  untrue! 
How  highly  prized  that  which,  when  we  attain, 
We  find  contains  not  happiness,  but  pain, 
And  then  our  time  and  effort  sadly  rue! 

The  disappointed,  the  disconsolate  — 
How  often  are  they  those  but  led  astray 
By  some  false  aim,  those  fallen  in  the  way 
Of  clouded  reason,  mind  intemperate  ?  — 

They  who  the  fruit  of  happiness  would  grasp, 
Yet  but  mistook  that  which  doth  it  contain 
And,  having  spent  themselves  and  life  in  vain, 
Find  naught  but  dust  and  ashes  in  their  clasp. 

Those  who  see  naught  but  what  appeals  to  sense; 
Those  living  naught  but  a  material  life  — 
In  thought,  in  aspiration  and  in  strife  — 
At  last  receive  the  proper  recompense. 

Those  who  conceive,  alone,  a  selfish  goal  — 
Self-centred  souls  in  bondage  unto  self, 
Seekers  of  place,  of  power,  of  paltry  pelf  — 
In  final  disappointment  pay  the  toll. 


[96] 


Mistakes  of  living,  commonplace  and  rife! 
Deluded  souls  who've  wandered  from  the  way 
And  after  some  strange  god  have  gone  astray, 
Losing  the  living  verities  of  life ! 

How  many  such  as  this  we  daily  see! 
How  few  that  show  conviction  and  content; 
The  mind  upon  some  higher  ideal  bent; 
The  eye  that  radiates  serenity ! 

Why  is  it  thus?     And  why  should  it  so  be? 
This  disproportion  in  the  human  mind 
That  makes  it  hard,  among  the  bound,  to  find 
The  few  in  number  who  seem  truly  free  — 

Free  from  despondency  and  dread  and  fear; 
From  anger,  malice,  or  the  lust  of  gain; 
From  false  ambition,  or  some  form  of  pain 
That  renders  life  but  desolate  and  drear! 

And  they,  the  few,  have  they  a  clearer  sight 
Than  they  the  many?     Are  their  eyelids  ope* 
To  some  fair  vision,  born  of  faith  and  hope, 
The  which  enables  them  to  see  the  light? 

Or  are  they  idle  dreamers  by  the  way  — 
Pure  visionaries  who  would  but  entice 
Their  souls  into  some  fair  fools'  paradise, 
And  blind  their  senses  to  the  passing  day  ? 


[97] 


No  doubt  to  those,  the  many,  thus  they  seem !  - 
Self-hypnotized;  incontinently  glad; 
Deluded  fools,  if  harmless,  still  quite  mad; 
Blind  to  what  is  and  sunk  but  in  a  dream! 

Thus  they  who  firm  conviction  ne'er  have  won! 
Thus  they  with  a  contemptuous  disdain 
Affect  to  treat  the  freedom  from  that  pain 
Of  discontent  'neath  which  they  stagger  on. 

But  if  the  goal  of  all  be  happiness  — 
Howe'er  'tis  found,  whatever  it  may  be  — 
Why  should  they  blind  themselves,  refuse  to  see 
That  others  have  what  they,  a  lack,  confess? 

If  all  their  efforts  have  but  failed  to  bring 
A  firm  conviction  and  a  true  content, 
Why  should  they  criticise  another's  bent 
If  not  but  prompted  by  cruel  envy's  sting? 

What  are  they  but  blind  leaders  who  would  lead  - 
Not  other  blind  —  but  this,  the  seeing  eye, 
Which  they  should  rather  follow  and  should  try 
From  this,  its  harvest  field,  to  reap  some  seed? 

For  by  its  fruits,  so  shall  ye  know  the  tree! 
And  that  which  bears  a  crop  of  discontent 
Had  best  be  left,  and  all  our  effort  bent 
To  that  which  yields  a  calm  serenity. 


[98] 


THE  CHOICE 

EACH  one  of  us  contains  within  his  soul 
A  power  for  good  or  ill,  for  weal  or  woe  — 
Dynamic  force,  the  which  we  may  control 
Or  aimlessly  permit  swing  to  and  fro. 
And  yet,  how  many  sense  this  latent  power, 
Or  gauge  aright  its  mighty,  dormant  force, 
Or  dream  the  possibilities  that  dower 
The  life  that  leads  it  in  the  proper  course ! 
The  life  that  leads  and  other  lives  that  touch 
A  life  so  led,  so  influenced,  so  inspired, 
Must  grow  in  strength  (if  little,  or  if  much) 
And  by  this  hidden  energy  be  fired  — 
Be  fired,  that  is,  if  it  be  given  scope, 
Tended  and  nurtured ;  and  if  we  but  find 
The  hidden  key  wherewith  the  soul  to  ope', 
For  it  ne'er  comes  unbidden  to  the  mind. 
Many  the  difficulties  to  o'ercome  — 
The  deviating  channels  at  the  source 
Within  ourselves,  that  in  their  final  sum 
Deter  the  stream  from  its  constructive  course. 
Weakness  of  body,  spirit,  or  of  mind, 
In  shielding  self,  would  self  itself  betray, 
By  ever  prompting  us  to  search  and  find 
Some  proof  to  prove  our  own  the  proper  way. 
'Tis  easier  far  to  drift  a-down  the  tide 
Than  fight  the  current  with  our  puny  strength, 
And  thus,  unconsciously  indeed,  to  glide 
Into  the  ocean  of  despair  at  length. 
'Tis  easier  to  be  weak  than  to  be  strong ; 

[99] 


To  think  that  we  are  right  instead  of  wrong; 
To  feel  that  others  but  misunderstand 
Who  strive  to  stay  us  with  a  warning  hand ! 
And  this  same  hidden  power,  be  it  not  led 
Into  constructive  channels  at  its  head 
And  source  of  life,  must  Nature's  law  obey 
And  take  its  course  down  the  destructive  way. 
Progress  or  retrogression  is  the  plan 
By  Nature  seemingly  ordained  for  Man ! 
Forward  or  backward !     Never  standing  still ! 
Assisting  or  retarding  Nature's  will! 
Who  is  not  for,  forever  'gainst,  must  be! 
Who  is  not  with,  must  ever  be  without! 
For  Nature  no  neutrality  can  see, 
Or  supine  indolence  permit  to  flout. 
And  thus  the  hidden  power  of  the  soul, 
If  not  converted  to  its  proper  use, 
Soon  loses  individual  control 
And  turns  its  force  to  harm,  use  to  abuse. 
For  we  are  ever  as  ourselves  have  built ; 
Ours  is  the  merit,  e'en  as  ours  the  guilt; 
Ours  the  development,  or  lack,  of  sense, 
As  ours  the  punishment  or  recompense ! 
'Tis  true  we  carry  in  the  blood  and  brain 
The  dormant  impulse  of  ancestral  strain 
That  moves  to  action  —  be  it  weak  or  strong 
Providing  tendencies  to  right  or  wrong. 
'Tis  also  true  that  force  of  circumstance 
May  mould  or  bend,  if  we  no  force  oppose, 
Thus  making  us  the  victims  of  blind  chance  — 
The  hapless  dupes  of  her  unnumbered  woes ! 
[100] 


But  this,  our  strength,  if  properly  applied, 
Has  power  to  overcome  and  quite  o'erride 
Those  other  forces  —  be  they  what  they  may  — 
And  turn  to  use  what  else  might  but  betray. 
Thus  are  we  each  the  product  of  his  will; 
Our  strength,  our  weakness,  what  the  will  doth 

show; 

Our  good  or  bad,  our  emptiness  or  fill, 
But  normal  fruits  which  from  the  will  but  grow! 
This,  then,  the  crop  that  must,  indeed,  sustain 
Ourselves  and  others  —  be  it  full  or  light ; 
These  our  possessions  —  be  they  loss  or  gain, 
And  these  our  weapons  in  the  constant  fight! 
And  as  no  raindrop  falls  into  the  sea 
But  does  thereby  some  other  drops  disturb, 
So  we  uninfluenced  can  never  be, 
Or  fail  to  influence  —  incite  or  curb. 
And  thus  not  only  in  ourselves,  indeed, 
But  in  all  those  who  come  within  our  life, 
Our  thought  and  action  generate  the  seed 
That  comes  to  flower  in  harmony  or  strife! 
No  act  of  ours  but  leaves  its  full  impress 
Upon  our  own,  as  'pon  some  other,  soul, 
Implanting  therein  courage  or  distress, 
And  thus  in  good  or  evil  taking  toll ! 
Not  only  word  and  deed,  but  thought  as  well, 
In  fashioning  our  attitude  of  mind, 
Has  power  to  diminish  or  to  swell 
Constructiveness  in  others  of  our  kind! 
Some  souls  are  as  a  tonic,  bringing  life 
And  faith  and  hope  to  others  on  the  way, 
[101] 


While  some,  absorbed  in  petty,  selfish  strife, 

Themselves  misled,  would  others  cause  to  stray. 

The  one,  pure  gold  reflecting  light  to  all 

Upon  the  path!     The  other,  base  alloy, 

Inspiring  none,  but  acting  as  a  pall 

To  others'  hope  and  courage,  faith  and  joy! 

Did'st  ever  wander  in  secluded  glade 

As  evening  shadows  'gin  to  gather  round 

And  watch  the  alternating  light  and  shade 

That  cast  their  checkered  mantle  on  the  ground? 

The  one,  a  thing  of  beauty,  full  of  cheer, 

Doth  in  the  mind  a  confidence  instil; 

The  other  —  dull,  depressing,  dank  and  drear  — 

Strikes  to  the  heart  its  cold  miasmic  chill  — 

A  blood-congealing  chill  that  stops  the  flow 

Of  human  sympathy  for  others'  woe; 

A  turbid  stream,  polluted  in  its  course, 

That  would  pollute  another  at  its  source! 

Thus  in  us  all,  the  good  with  evil  strives ! 

Ours  to  dispel  or  others'  grief  allay, 

Or  spread  contamination  in  the  lives 

Of  those  within  the  orbit  of  our  day. 

'Tis  ours  to  open  or  to  blind  the  eyes ! 

'Tis  ours  to  gauge,  to  measure  and  to  choose ! 

This  Nature  grants ;  and  in  the  grant  there  lies 

Concealed  reward,  which  we  must  win  or  lose ! 


[102] 


THROUGH  hour  to  day ;  through  day  to  month  and 

year; 

Through  year  to  generation  —  century ; 
Through  age;  through  aeon  piled  'pon  countless 

more  — 

Forgot,  unnumbered  in  the  lapse  of  time, 
And  on  through  countless  others  yet  to  come ; 
Unchecked,  unhindered  by  the  passing  day; 
Converting  all  to  its  relentless  sway ; 
The  Evolutionary  Principle, 
Untired,  untiring,  still  pursues  its  way ! 
Born  with  the  birth  of  Time  in  aeons  past, 
Whose  contemplation  staggers  human  thought, 
Unceasingly  it  works  while  Time  shall  last 
Or  aught  remains  unfinished,  or  unwrought 
To  the  perfected  plan  by  Nature  sought. 
For  who  can  count  the  countless  ages  thrown 
Into  the  lap  of  Time  ere  yet  this  earth 
As  fiery  vapor  ball  through  space  had  flown  — 
E'en  'fore  conception  heralded  its  birth? 
What  countless  aeons  must  have  thus  elapsed ! 
What  unimagined  worlds  have  come  and  gone ! 
What  solar  systems  formed,  grown  old,  collapsed, 
Ere  this  our  little  earth  itself  was  born ! 
How  brief  is,  by  comparison,  the  time 
Since  this  our  world,  grown  hard  and  firm  and 

cool, 

Conceived  first  life  in  protoplasmic  slime, 
Beneath  the  evolutionary  rule, 

[10S] 


And  started  first  upon  its  upward  climb! 

And  how  infinitesimal  the  span 

'Pon  this,  our  earth,  allotted  unto  Man ! 

How  late  and  recent  must  the  advent  be 

Of  this  last  bud  'pon  the  ancestral  tree! 

And  yet,  in  face  of  this  stupendous  scheme, 

Before  the  which  we're  lost  in  speechless  awe, 

Man,  in  his  petty  arrogance,  would  dream 

Himself  the  first,  and  'tempt  to  pick  some  flaw 

In  this,  great  Nature's  plan,  and  try  to  prove 

That,    'fore    himself,    naught   here   did    live    and 

move! 

Himself  the  first  creation  —  not  the  last 
Of  this,  her  process  of  development! 
Created  perfect,  and  his  lot  then  cast 
Into  a  world  for  his  own  government ! 
And,  falling  'fore  temptation's  first  assault, 
This  petty  reasoning  would  make  believe 
That  all  men  since  are  cursed  for  this,  his  fault, 
Which  no  self-effort  can  at  all  retrieve, 
And  which  divine  compassion  must  relieve, 
If  but  relief  at  all  can  be  attained, 
And  that  once  lost  be  once  again  regained! 
And  in  their  cheap  and  cunning  sophistry, 
They  make  prerequisite  that  we  believe 
In  this,  their  petty  scheme,  insisting  that 
The  mind  accept  that  which  it  can't  receive. 
And  thus  God-given  Mind  they'd  prostitute 
To  cringing  Fear,  by  Superstition  led, 
And  for  self-conscious  thought  would  substitute 
A  thoughtless  nothing,  desolate  and  dead! 
[104] 


Thus  do  they  try  to  bring  within  their  ken 
True  Nature's  God,   and  'pon   Him  place  their 

seal  — 

The  seal  and  symbol  of  presumptuous  men 
Of  untrained  thought  —  bold,  crude  and  infantile ! 
Thus  would  they  dower  the  universal  God  — 
The  God  of  all  that  is  in  time  or  space  — 
With  human  frailties,  weaknesses  outgrown 
E'en  by  the  many  of  our  time  and  race! 
With  anger,  hate,  revenge  and  petty  spite ; 
Cruel,  deceiving,  arrogant  and  vain; 
Colossal  weakness  and  gigantic  might ;  — 
The  crude  conception  of  a  savage  brain ! 
A  God  who  would  His  only  son  destroy 
And  sacrifice  to  His  devouring  lust 
For  blood !     Whom  no  satiety  could  cloy  — 
Devoid  of  justice  —  worthy  of  no  trust! 
The  crude  conception  of  an  early  age 
In  human  thought !     A  soul-defiling  stain 
Of  human  childhood,  left  upon  the  page 
Of  human  life,  and  stamped  upon  the  brain 
Of  each  new  generation  by  the  one 
That  gave  it  birth;  a  relic  of  the  dead 
Passed  on  by  each,  from  father  unto  son, 
In  thoughtless  superstition,  fear  and  dread! 
How  hard  it  is  such  precepts  to  outgrow 
The  present  strength  of  this  alone  will  show, 
And  yet  to  such  a  God  as  this  we  raise 
Our  thoughts  in  prayer,  in  adoration,  praise ; 
To  such  a  one  as  this  we  turn  our  eyes  — 
One  who,  if  such,  we  must  at  heart  desoise ! 

[105] 


And  many  purblind  ones  believe  that  this, 

Because  tradition  taught,  perforce  must  be; 

And,  moved  by  nameless  terror,  straightway  hiss 

That  these  same  words  are  naught  but  blasphemy. 

A  blasphemy,  indeed,  thus  to  deny 

So  base  a  claim;  to  stigmatize  as  vain 

Such  crude  conceptions ;  and,  indeed,  to  try 

To  lift  the  vision  to  a  higher  plane ! 

A  blasphemy  to  claim  that  Nature's  God 

Is  not  that  ruthless  one  of  fire  and  sword, 

Revengeful  lust  and  bloody  mind  and  hand, 

But  one  immeasurably  just  and  grand! 

And  is  not  such,  indeed,  the  God  that  we, 

If  dimly  now,  yet  dimly  still  may  see 

O'erlooking  and  directing  this,   our  way, 

Through  this  same  evolutionary  sway? 

How  grand  and  mighty  is  the  plan  that  thus 

Unfolds  itself  before  our  wondering  eyes  — 

A  plan  inspiring  confidence  and  trust 

That  low  to  higher  things  must  ever  rise! 

And  Man  no  fallen  angel  here  we  see, 

Forever  expiating  others'  sin, 

Or  by  another's  sacrifice  made  free, 

But  one  who  in  himself  can  here  begin 

The  work  which  final  happiness  must  win. 

How  grand  the  scheme  that  from  primordial  slime 

Has  thus  developed  heart  and  soul  and  mind, 

And  crowned  with  aspiration  this,  the  climb 

To  greater  heights  —  there  happiness  to  find ! 

How  worthy  of  our  adoration,  praise, 

Is  such  a  God  —  revealed  in  such  ways ! 

[106] 


How  worthy  of  our  homage  and  our  trust! 

How  infinitely  mighty,  wise  and  just! 

And  what  prophetic  vision  can  foretell 

The  final  outcome  of  the  mighty  plan 

That  from  the  primal  protoplasmic  cell 

Can  fashion  and  develop  conscious  Man? 

If  in  so  brief  a  period,  indeed, 

Can  evolution  with  such  graces  dower, 

Who  can  forecast  the  bloom  from  this  same  seed 

When  in  a  later  harvest  come  to  flower? 

Where'er  we  turn  we  see  its  mighty  force 

Pursuing,  all  unchecked,  its  constant  course 

From  low  to  high,  from  high  to  higher  still, 

Controlled  and  guided  by  Infinite  Will. 

From  mineral  to  plant;  from  plant  to  some 

Low  form  of  higher  life  the  way  has  come! 

Up,  ever  upward  —  slow,  but  ever  sure  — 

And  so  shall  come  while  Time  shall  still  endure. 

And  on  the  outskirts  of  each  kingdom  we 

Some  close  connecting  link  may  often  see; 

High  forms  of  low,  low  forms  of  high,  in  each, 

That  evolution's  trend  would  seem  to  teach. 

Animal  life  that  vegetates  and  dies ; 

Unfeeling  life  from  birth  unto  decline; 

And  vegetation  that  would  seem  to  rise 

To  some  faint  sense  across  the  border  line. 

And  in  some  higher  animals  we  find 

Such  indications  of  the  heart  and  mind  — 

Of  love,  devotion,  altruism  —  that 

Oft  put  to  shame  the  baser  human  kind. 

But  here  in  Man  the  end  no  doubt  we  reach 

[107] 


Of  physical  development  at  last, 
Which  Nature's  book  would  seem,  indeed,  to  teach 
To  be  his  legacy  from  out  the  past  — 
His  legacy  the  which  he  must  refine; 
Must  purge,  develop,  change  from  gross  to  fine; 
And  in  the  psychic  realm  advance  again 
Up  this,  the  evolutionary  line. 
Where'er  we  look,  the  evidence  we  see 
Of  what  Man  was !     But  what  he  yet  may  be, 
Who  dares  to  say?     What  power  can  control 
The  upward  impulse  of  the  human  soul? 
The  slumbering  embryo  within  the  womb 
A  light  upon  our  history  would  cast, 
And  indicate  from  this,  its  living  tomb, 
The  many  stages  Man  has  reached  and  passed. 
From  protoplasmic  cell  it  takes  its  way, 
Through  all  the  lower  kingdoms  of  the  plan, 
Up,  ever  up,  unto  the  light  of  day 
That  breaks  at  last  upon  self-conscious  Man ! 
What  embryologist  could  ever  see 
The  wonders  here  unfolded  but  must  be 
Convinced  from  this  development,  indeed, 
That  Nature's  course  must  ever  upward  lead! 
Does  not  Man's  childhood,  infancy  and  youth 
The  upward  struggle  of  the  race  relate, 
And  give  us  living  evidence,  forsooth, 
Of  slow  development  from  savage  state? 
Does  not,  indeed,  the  all-unconscious  child 
Suggest  a  being  primitive  and  wild? 
First,  primal  savage;  then,  barbarian; 
Up,  ever  upward,  unto  perfect  Man ! 
[108] 


And  in  how  many  is  the  growth  but  slow ! 

How  many  lives  are  checked  within  their  course ! 

How  many  grow  awhile,  then  cease  to  grow 

Through  lack  of  effort  at  the  head  and  source ! 

In  individuals  and  nations,  too, 

How  often  is  this  fact  indeed  too  true; 

How  often  does  stagnation  take  the  place 

Of  active  effort  in  life's  mighty  race! 

For  Nature  has  vouchsafed  alone  to  Man 

A  full  co-operation  in  her  plan ; 

To  him  alone  she  grants  the  right  to  choose  — 

Advance  or  hinder  —  profit  or  abuse ! 

Each  for  himself  must  make  the  final  choice  — 

For,  or  against,  must  raise  his  single  voice  — 

And,  having  chosen,  he  indeed  is  free 

To  be  the  thing  that  he  aspires  to  be. 

Free,  purely  physical  desires  to  tend; 

Free,  mental  strength  to  nurture  and  to  bend 

To  selfish  aims,  despising  all  that  doth 

Contribute  naught  to  such  self-centred  end; 

Free  to  develop  part,  instead  of  whole, 

Of  this  the  triune  character  of  Man ; 

Or  to  develop  body,  mind  and  soul 

In  strict  conformity  with  Nature's  plan. 

Those  whose  ambition  is  a  selfish  aim  — 

They  who,  in  pandering  to  the  senses,  live  — 

But  hinder  self  and  abrogate  their  claim 

To  greater  gifts  that  Nature  has  to  give. 

Self-centred  creatures,  grovelling  in  the  earth 

Towards  some  mean  and  petty,  selfish  goal, 

Nor  recognizing  in  themselves  the  birth, 

[109] 


The  growth,  or  death,  of  an  aspiring  soul; 

Servers  of  Self  who  worship  at  the  shrine 

Of  Self  alone,  to  whom  they  kneel  and  pray, 

Nor  note  that  rise  has  changed  into  decline, 

And,  serving  Self,  thus  Self  at  last  betray ! 

But  such  as  these,  puffed  up  in  selfish  pride, 

The  winnowing  fans  of  Fate  but  cast  aside 

And  leave  to  the  converting  hand  of  Time, 

While  Evolution  ever  up  doth  climb 

Upon  its  purpose,  infinite,  sublime. 

Within  each  soul  the  dormant  power  lies 

To  sink  below  or  upward  still  to  rise, 

And  by  its  effort  to  accelerate 

The  ever  on  and  upward  march  of  Fate. 

What  recompenses  to  be  lost  or  gained  — 

What  the  sublimity  to  be  attained  — 

He  only  knows  who  has  the  power  to  find 

The  limitations  of  the  human  mind. 

The  limitations  of  immortal  soul  — 

The  truth,  from  dim  beginning  to  dim  end  — 

Ultimate  purpose  and  the  final  goal 

Towards  which  all  life,  both  high  and  low,  doth 

tend  — 

Ultimates  these,  still  far  beyond  our  ken, 
But  faith  intuitive  must  yet  believe 
The  possibilities  of  There  and  Then 
Exceed  the  scope  of  fancy  to  conceive. 
"  Imagination  bodies  forth,"  indeed, 
"  The  forms  of  things  unknown  " ;  yet  even  they, 
These  fancy-flights  of  soul,  must  ever  lead 
Along  a  well  defined  and  certain  way 
[110] 


Marked  by  experience  within  our  day. 
From  these  encircling  bounds  can  we  be  freed, 
Or,  far  afield  indeed,  allowed  to  stray? 
Can  dormant  mollusk,  slumbering  in  the  sand 
Of  ocean  deeps,  conceive  the  upper  land, 
Appraise  the  distant  stretch  from  pole  to  pole, 
Or  gauge  the  depths  of  human  mind  and  soul? 
Can  unhatched  chick,  within  parturient  shell, 
Predict  the  comet's  coming  from  afar, 
Or  spectroscopically  weigh  and  tell 
The  composition  of  some  distant  star? 
E'en  so  with  us,  puffed  up  in  petty  pride  — 
Who  deeper  knowledge  than  our  own  deride  — 
How  can  we  say  what  can,  or  cannot,  be, 
Or  tell  what  in  the  future  may  betide? 
How  can  we  plainly  see  while  in  the  mesh 
Of  gross  and  slow  vibrating  human  flesh? 
How  can  we  e'en  attempt  foretell  the  way 
While  bound  and  hampered  by  enclosing  clay? 
But  we  can  follow  step  by  step  the  tread 
Of  Evolution's  slow  but  certain  pace, 
And  note  how,  from  amoeba,  it  has  led 
Up,  ever  upward,  to  the  human  race. 
Up,  up,  and  ever  up,  the  way  has  been; 
Up,  up,  from  low  to  high;  from  gross  to  fine; 
With  something  ever  higher  still  to  win ; 
And  what  yet  lies  ahead  —  who  can  divine  ? 
Our  past  experience  at  least  should  teach 
How  limitless,  unmeasured  and  sublime 
Are  still  the  possibilities  that  reach 
Up  the  long  vista  of  Eternal  Time! 
[Ill] 


PS 
3513 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  922  959     2 


